6
When Joan returned to consciousness she was lying half outside theopening of the cabin and above her was a drift of blue gun-smoke, slowlyfloating upward. Almost as swiftly as perception of that smoke came ashuddering memory. She lay still, listening. She did not hear a soundexcept the tinkle and babble and gentle rush of the brook. Kells wasdead, then. And overmastering the horror of her act was a relief, afreedom, a lifting of her soul out of the dark dread, a something thatwhispered justification of the fatal deed.
She got up and, avoiding to look within the cabin, walked away. The sunwas almost at the zenith. Where had the morning hours gone?
"I must get away," she said, suddenly. The thought quickened her. Downthe canon the horses were grazing. She hurried along the trail, tryingto decide whether to follow this dim old trail or endeavor to get outthe way she had been brought in. She decided upon the latter. If shetraveled slowly, and watched for familiar landmarks, things she had seenonce, and hunted carefully for the tracks, she believed she might besuccessful. She had the courage to try. Then she caught her pony and ledhim back to camp.
"What shall I take?" she pondered. She decided upon very little--ablanket, a sack of bread and meat, and a canteen of water. She mightneed a weapon, also. There was only one, the gun with which she hadkilled Kells. It seemed utterly impossible to touch that hateful thing.But now that she had liberated herself, and at such cost, she must notyield to sentiment. Resolutely she started for the cabin, but when shereached it her steps were dragging. The long, dull-blue gun lay whereshe had dropped it. And out of the tail of averted eyes she saw ahuddled shape along the wall. It was a sickening moment when she reacheda shaking hand for the gun. And at that instant a low moan transfixedher.
She seemed frozen rigid. Was the place already haunted? Her heartswelled in her throat and a dimness came before her eyes. But anothermoan brought a swift realization--Kells was alive. And the cold,clamping sickness, the strangle in her throat, all the feelings ofterror, changed and were lost in a flood of instinctive joy. He was notdead. She had not killed him. She did not have blood on her hands. Shewas not a murderer.
She whirled to look at him. There he lay, ghastly as a corpse. And allher woman's gladness fled. But there was compassion left to her, and,forgetting all else, she knelt beside him. He was as cold as stone. Shefelt no stir, no beat of pulse in temple or wrist. Then she placed herear against his breast. His heart beat weakly.
"He's alive," she whispered. "But--he's dying.... What shall I do?"
Many thoughts flashed across her mind. She could not help him now; hewould be dead soon; she did not need to wait there beside him; there wasa risk of some of his comrades riding into that rendezvous. Suppose hisback was not broken after all! Suppose she stopped the flow of blood,tended him, nursed him, saved his life? For if there were one chance ofhis living, which she doubted, it must be through her. Would he not bethe same savage the hour he was well and strong again? What differencecould she make in such a nature? The man was evil. He could not conquerevil. She had been witness to that. He had driven Roberts to draw andhad killed him. No doubt he had deliberately and coldly murdered the tworuffians, Bill and Halloway, just so he could be free of their glancesat her and be alone with her. He deserved to die there like a dog.
What Joan Randle did was surely a woman's choice. Carefully she rolledKells over. The back of his vest and shirt was wet with blood. She gotup to find a knife, towel, and water. As she returned to the cabin hemoaned again.
Joan had dressed many a wound. She was not afraid of blood. Thedifference was that she had shed it. She felt sick, but her hands werefirm as she cut open the vest and shirt, rolled them aside, and bathedhis back. The big bullet had made a gaping wound, having apparently gonethrough the small of his back. The blood still flowed. She could nottell whether or not Kell's spine was broken, but she believed that thebullet had gone between bone and muscle, or had glanced. There was ablue welt just over his spine, in line with the course of the wound. Shetore her scarf into strips and used it for compresses and bandages.Then she laid him back upon a saddle-blanket. She had done all that waspossible for the present, and it gave her a strange sense of comfort.She even prayed for his life, and, if that must go, for his soul. Thenshe got up. He was unconscious, white, death-like. It seemed that historture, his near approach to death, had robbed his face of ferocity,of ruthlessness, and of that strange amiable expression. But then, hiseyes, those furnace-windows, were closed.
Joan waited for the end to come. The afternoon passed and she did notleave the cabin. It was possible that he might come to and want water.She had once administered to a miner who had been fatally crushed inan avalanche; and never could forget his husky call for water and thegratitude in his eyes.
Sunset, twilight, and night fell upon the canon. And she began to feelsolitude as something tangible. Bringing saddle and blankets into thecabin, she made a bed just inside, and, facing the opening and thestars, she lay down to rest, if not to sleep. The darkness did not keepher from seeing the prostrate figure of Kells. He lay there as silentas if he were already dead. She was exhausted, weary for sleep, andunstrung. In the night her courage fled and she was frightened atshadows. The murmuring of insects seemed augmented into a roar; themourn of wolf and scream of cougar made her start; the rising windmoaned like a lost spirit. Dark fancies beset her. Troop on troop ofspecters moved out of the black night, assembling there, waiting forKells to join them. She thought she was riding homeward over the backtrail, sure of her way, remembering every rod of that rough travel,until she got out of the mountains, only to be turned back by dead men.Then fancy and dream, and all the haunted gloom of canon and cabin,seemed slowly to merge into one immense blackness.
The sun, rimming the east wall, shining into Joan's face, awakenedher. She had slept hours. She felt rested, stronger. Like the night,something dark had passed away from her. It did not seem strange toher that she should feel that Kells still lived. She knew it. Andexamination proved her right. In him there had been no change exceptthat he had ceased to bleed. There was just a flickering of life in him,manifest only in his slow, faint heart-beats.
Joan spent most of that day in sitting beside Kells. The whole dayseemed only an hour. Sometimes she would look down the canon trail, halfexpecting to see horsemen riding up. If any of Kells's comrades happenedto come, what could she tell them? They would be as bad as he, withoutthat one trait which had kept him human for a day. Joan pondered uponthis. It would never do to let them suspect she had shot Kells. So,carefully cleaning the gun, she reloaded it. If any men came, she wouldtell them that Bill had done the shooting.
Kells lingered. Joan began to feel that he would live, though everythingindicated the contrary. Her intelligence told her he would die, and herfeeling said he would not. At times she lifted his head and got waterinto his mouth with a spoon. When she did this he would moan. Thatnight, during the hours she lay awake, she gathered courage out of thevery solitude and loneliness. She had nothing to fear, unless someonecame to the canon. The next day in no wise differed from the preceding.And then there came the third day, with no change in Kells till nearevening, when she thought he was returning to consciousness. But shemust have been mistaken. For hours she watched patiently. He mightreturn to consciousness just before the end, and want to speak, to senda message, to ask a prayer, to feel a human hand at the last.
That night the crescent moon hung over the canon. In the faint lightJoan could see the blanched face of Kells, strange and sad, no longerseeming evil. The time came when his lips stirred. He tried to talk. Shemoistened his lips and gave him a drink. He murmured incoherently, sankagain into a stupor, to rouse once more and babble tike a madman. Thenhe lay quietly for long--so long that sleep was claiming Joan. Suddenlyhe startled her by calling very faintly but distinctly: "Water! Water!"
Joan bent over him, lifting his head, helping him to drink. She couldsee his eyes, like dark holes in something white.
"Is--that--you--mother?" he whi
spered.
"Yes," replied Joan.
He sank immediately into another stupor or sleep, from which he did notrouse. That whisper of his--mother--touched Joan. Bad men had mothersjust the same as any other kind of men. Even this Kells had a mother. Hewas still a young man. He had been youth, boy, child, baby. Some motherhad loved him, cradled him, kissed his rosy baby hands, watched him growwith pride and glory, built castles in her dreams of his manhood, andperhaps prayed for him still, trusting he was strong and honored amongmen. And here he lay, a shattered wreck, dying for a wicked act, thelast of many crimes. It was a tragedy. It made Joan think of the hardlot of mothers, and then of this unsettled Western wild, where menflocked in packs like wolves, and spilled blood like water, and heldlife nothing.
Joan sought her rest and soon slept. In the morning she did not at oncego to Kells. Somehow she dreaded finding him conscious, almost as muchas she dreaded the thought of finding him dead. When she did bend overhim he was awake, and at sight of her he showed a faint amaze.
"Joan!" he whispered.
"Yes," she replied.
"Are you--with me still?"
"Of course, I couldn't leave you."
The pale eyes shadowed strangely, darkly. "I'm alive yet. And youstayed!... Was it yesterday--you threw my gun--on me?"
"No. Four days ago."
"Four! Is my back broken?"
"I don't know. I don't think so. It's a terrible wound. I--I did all Icould."
"You tried to kill me--then tried to save me?"
She was silent to that.
"You're good--and you've been noble," he said. "But I wish--you'd onlybeen bad. Then I'd curse you--and strangle you--presently."
"Perhaps you had best be quiet," replied Joan.
"No. I've been shot before. I'll get over this--if my back's not broken.How can we tell?"
"I've no idea."
"Lift me up."
"But you might open your wound," protested Joan.
"Lift me up!" The force of the man spoke even in his low whisper.
"But why--why?" asked Joan.
"I want to see--if I can sit up. If I can't--give me my gun."
"I won't let you have it," replied Joan. Then she slipped her arms underhis and, carefully raising him to a sitting posture, released her hold.
"I'm--a--rank coward--about pain," he gasped, with thick drops standingout on his white face. "I can't--stand it."
But tortured or not, he sat up alone, and even had the will to bend hisback. Then with a groan he fainted and fell into Joan's arms. She laidhim down and worked over him for some time before she could bring himto. Then he was wan, suffering, speechless. But she believed he wouldlive and told him so. He received that with a strange smile. Later, whenshe came to him with broth, he drank it gratefully.
"I'll beat this out," he said, weakly. "I'll recover. My back's notbroken. I'll get well. Now you bring water and food in here--then go."
"Go?" she echoed.
"Yes. Don't go down the canon. You'd be worse off.... Take the backtrail. You've got a chance to get out.... Go!"
"Leave you here? So weak you can't lift a cup! I won't."
"I'd rather you did."
"Why?"
"Because in a few days I'll begin to mend. Then I'll growlike--myself.... I think--I'm afraid I loved you.... It could only behell for you. Go now, before it's too late!... If you stay--till I'mwell--I'll never let you go!"
"Kells, I believe it would be cowardly for me to leave you here alone,"she replied, earnestly. "You can't help yourself. You'd die."
"All the better. But I won't die. I'm hard to kill. Go, I tell you."
She shook her head. "This is bad for you--arguing. You're excited.Please be quiet."
"Joan Randle, if you stay--I'll halter you--keep you naked in acave--curse you--beat you--murder you! Oh, it's in me!... Go, I tellyou!"
"You're out of your head. Once for all--no!" she replied, firmly.
"You--you--" His voice failed in a terrible whisper....
In the succeeding days Kells did not often speak. His recovery wasslow--a matter of doubt. Nothing was any plainer than the fact that ifJoan had left him he would not have lived long. She knew it. And he knewit. When he was awake, and she came to him, a mournful and beautifulsmile lit his eyes. The sight of her apparently hurt him and upliftedhim. But he slept twenty hours out of every day, and while he slept hedid not need Joan.
She came to know the meaning of solitude. There were days when she didnot hear the sound of her own voice. A habit of silence, one of thesignificant forces of solitude, had grown upon her. Daily she thoughtless and felt more. For hours she did nothing. When she roused herself,compelled herself to think of these encompassing peaks of the lonelycanon walls, the stately trees, all those eternally silent and changlessfeatures of her solitude, she hated them with a blind and unreasoningpassion. She hated them because she was losing her love for them,because they were becoming a part of her, because they were fixed andcontent and passionless. She liked to sit in the sun, feel its warmth,see its brightness; and sometimes she almost forgot to go back to herpatient. She fought at times against an insidious change--a growingolder--a going backward; at other times she drifted through hours thatseemed quiet and golden, in which nothing happened. And by and by whenshe realized that the drifting hours were gradually swallowing up therestless and active hours, then strangely, she remembered Jim Cleve.Memory of him came to save her. She dreamed of him during the long,lonely, solemn days, and in the dark, silent climax of unbearablesolitude--the night. She remembered his kisses, forgot her angerand shame, accepted the sweetness of their meaning, and so in theinterminable hours of her solitude she dreamed herself into love forhim.
Joan kept some record of days, until three weeks or thereabout passed,and then she lost track of time. It dragged along, yet looked at as thepast, it seemed to have sped swiftly. The change in her, the growingold, the revelation and responsibility of serf, as a woman, made thisexperience appear to have extended over months.
Kells slowly became convalescent and then he had a relapse. Somethinghappened, the nature of which Joan could not tell, and he almost died.There were days when his life hung in the balance, when he could nottalk; and then came a perceptible turn for the better.
The store of provisions grew low, and Joan began to face another serioussituation. Deer and rabbit were plentiful in the canon, but she couldnot kill one with a revolver. She thought she would be forced tosacrifice one of the horses. The fact that Kells suddenly showed acraving for meat brought this aspect of the situation to a climax. Andthat very morning while Joan was pondering the matter she saw a numberof horsemen riding up the canon toward the cabin. At the moment she wasrelieved, and experienced nothing of the dread she had formerly feltwhile anticipating this very event.
"Kells," she said, quickly, "there are men riding up the trail."
"Good," he exclaimed, weakly, with a light on his drawn face. "They'vebeen long in--getting here. How many?"
Joan counted them--five riders, and several pack-animals.
"Yes. It's Gulden."
"Gulden!" cried Joan, with a start.
Her exclamation and tone made Kells regard her attentively.
"You've heard of him? He's the toughest nut--on this border.... I neversaw his like. You won't be safe. I'm so helpless.... What to say--totell him!... Joan, if I should happen to croak--you want to get awayquick... or shoot yourself."
How strange to hear this bandit warn her of peril the like of which shehad encountered through him! Joan secured the gun and hid it in a nichebetween the logs. Then she looked out again.
The riders were close at hand now. The foremost one, a man of Herculeanbuild, jumped his mount across the brook, and leaped off while he hauledthe horse to a stop. The second rider came close behind him; the othersapproached leisurely, with the gait of the pack-animals.
"Ho, Kells!" called the big man. His voice had a loud, bold, sonorouskind of ring.
"Reckon he's
here somewheres," said the other man, presently.
"Sure. I seen his hoss. Jack ain't goin' to be far from thet hoss."
Then both of them approached the cabin. Joan had never before seen twosuch striking, vicious-looking, awesome men. The one was huge--so wideand heavy and deep-set that he looked short--and he resembled a gorilla.The other was tall, slim, with a face as red as flame, and an expressionof fierce keenness. He was stoop shouldered, yet he held his head erectin a manner that suggested a wolf scenting blood.
"Someone here, Pearce," boomed the big man.
"Why, Gul, if it ain't a girl!"
Joan moved out of the shadow of the wall of the cabin, and she pointedto the prostrate figure on the blankets.
"Howdy boys!" said Kells, wanly.
Gulden cursed in amaze while Pearce dropped to his knee with anexclamation of concern. Then both began to talk at once. Kellsinterrupted them by lifting a weak hand.
"No, I'm not going--to cash," he said. "I'm only starved--and in need ofstimulants. Had my back half shot off."
"Who plugged you, Jack?"
"Gulden, it was your side-partner, Bill."
"Bill?" Gulden's voice held a queer, coarse constraint. Then he added,gruffly. "Thought you and him pulled together."
"Well, we didn't."
"And--where's Bill now?" This time Joan heard a slow, curious, cold notein the heavy voice, and she interpreted it as either doubt or deceit.
"Bill's dead and Halloway, too," replied Kells.
Gulden turned his massive, shaggy head in the direction of Joan. She hadnot the courage to meet the gaze upon her. The other man spoke:
"Split over the girl, Jack?"
"No," replied Kells, sharply. "They tried to get familiar with--MYWIFE--and I shot them both."
Joan felt a swift leap of hot blood all over her and then a coldness, asickening, a hateful weakness.
"Wife!" ejaculated Gulden.
"Your real wife, Jack?" queried Pearce.
"Well, I guess, I'll introduce you... Joan, here are two of myfriends--Sam Gulden and Red Pearce."
Gulden grunted something.
"Mrs. Kells, I'm glad to meet you," said Pearce.
Just then the other three men entered the cabin and Joan took advantageof the commotion they made to get out into the air. She felt sick,frightened, and yet terribly enraged. She staggered a little as shewent out, and she knew she was as pale as death. These visitors thrustreality upon her with a cruel suddenness. There was something terriblein the mere presence of this Gulden. She had not yet dared to take agood look at him. But what she felt was overwhelming. She wanted torun. Yet escape now was infinitely more of a menace than before. If sheslipped away it would be these new enemies who would pursue her, trackher like hounds. She understood why Kells had introduced her as hiswife. She hated the idea with a shameful and burning hate, but amoment's reflection taught her that Kells had answered once more toa good instinct. At the moment he had meant that to protect her.And further reflection persuaded Joan that she would be wise to actnaturally and to carry out the deception as far as it was possible forher. It was her only hope. Her position had again grown perilous. Shethought of the gun she had secreted, and it gave her strength to controlher agitation and to return to the cabin outwardly calm.
The men had Kells half turned over with the flesh of his back exposed.
"Aw, Gul, it's whisky he needs," said one.
"If you let out any more blood he'll croak sure," protested another.
"Look how weak he is," said Red Pearce.
"It's a hell of a lot you know," roared Gulden. "I served my time--butthat's none of your business.... Look here! See that blue spot!" Guldenpressed a huge finger down upon the blue welt on Kells's back. Thebandit moaned. "That's lead--that's the bullet," declared Gulden.
"Wall, if you ain't correct!" exclaimed Pearce.
Kells turned his head. "When you punched that place--it made me numb allover. Gul, if you've located the bullet, cut it out."
Joan did not watch the operation. As she went away to the seat under thebalsam she heard a sharp cry and then cheers. Evidently the grim Guldenhad been both swift and successful.
Presently the men came out of the cabin and began to attend to theirhorses and the pack-train.
Pearce looked for Joan, and upon seeing her called out, "Kells wantsyou."
Joan found the bandit half propped up against a saddle with a damp andpallid face, but an altogether different look.
"Joan, that bullet was pressing on my spine," he said. "Now it's out,all that deadness is gone. I feel alive. I'll get well, soon.... Guldenwas curious over the bullet. It's a forty-four caliber, and neither BillBailey nor Halloway used that caliber of gun. Gulden remembered. He'scunning. Bill was as near being a friend to this Gulden as any man Iknow of. I can't trust any of these men, particularly Gulden. You staypretty close by me."
"Kells, you'll let me go soon--help me to get home?" implored Joan in alow voice.
"Girl, it'd never be safe now," he replied.
"Then later--soon--when it is safe?"
"We'll see.... But you're my wife now!"
With the latter words the man subtly changed. Something of the power shehad felt in him before his illness began again to be manifested. Joandivined that these comrades had caused the difference in him.
"You won't dare--!" Joan was unable to conclude her meaning. A tightband compressed her breast and throat, and she trembled.
"Will you dare go out there and tell them you're NOT my wife?" hequeried. His voice had grown stronger and his eyes were blending shadowsof thought.
Joan knew that she dared not. She must choose the lesser of two evils."No man--could be such a beast to a woman--after she'd saved his life,"she whispered.
"I could be anything. You had your chance. I told you to go. I said if Iever got well I'd be as I was--before."
"But you'd have died."
"That would have been better for you..... Joan, I'll do this. Marryyou honestly and leave the country. I've gold. I'm young. I love you. Iintend to have you. And I'll begin life over again. What do you say?"
"Say? I'd die before--I'd marry you!" she panted.
"All right, Joan Randle," he replied, bitterly. "For a moment I saw aghost. My old dead better self!... It's gone.... And you stay with me."