“Yes. They've worked out a job for you alone. Will you undertake it?”
“I'll have to,” replied Cleve.
“You certainly will if you want the gang to justify my faith in you. Once you pull off a crooked deal, they'll switch and swear by you. Then we'll get together, all of us, and plan what to do about Gulden and his outfit. They'll run our heads, along with their own, right into the noose.”
“What is this—this job?” labored Cleve. He was sweating now and his hair hung damp over his brow. He lost that look which had made him a bold man and seemed a boy again, weak, driven, bewildered.
Kells averted his gaze before speaking again. He hated to force this task upon Cleve. Joan felt, in the throbbing pain of the moment, that if she never had another reason to like this bandit, she would like him for the pity he showed.
“Do you know a miner named Creede?” asked Kells, rapidly.
“A husky chap, short, broad, something like Gulden for shape, only not so big—fellow with a fierce red beard?” asked Cleve.
“I never saw him,” replied Kells. “But Pearce has. How does Cleve's description fit Creede?”
“He's got his man spotted,” answered Pearce.
“All right, that's settled,” went on Kells, warming to his subject. “This fellow Creede wears a heavy belt of gold. Blicky never makes a mistake. Creede's partner left on yesterday's stage for Bannack. He'll be gone a few days. Creede is a hard worker-one of the hardest. Sometimes he goes to sleep at his supper. He's not the drinking kind. He's slow, thick-headed. The best time for this job will be early in the evening—just as soon as his lights are out. Locate the tent. It stands at the head of a little wash and there's a bleached pine-tree right by the tent. To-morrow night as soon as it gets dark crawl up this wash—be careful—wait till the right time—then finish the job quick!”
“How—finish—it?” asked Cleve, hoarsely.
Kells was scintillating now, steely, cold, radiant. He had forgotten the man before him in the prospect of the gold.
“Creede's cot is on the side of the tent opposite the tree. You won't have to go inside. Slit the canvas. It's a rotten old tent. Kill Creede with your knife.... Get his belt.... Be bold, cautious, swift! That's your job. Now what do you say?”
“All right,” responded Cleve, somberly, and with a heavy tread he left the room.
After Jim had gone Joan still watched and listened. She was in distress over his unfortunate situation, but she had no fear that he meant to carry out Kells's plan. This was a critical time for Jim, and therefore for her. She had no idea what Jim could do; all she thought was what he would not do.
Kells gazed triumphantly at Pearce. “I told you the youngster would stand by me. I never put him on a job before.”
“Reckon I figgered wrong, boss,” replied Pearce.
“He looked sick to me, but game,” said Handy Oliver. “Kells is right, Red, an' you've been sore-headed over nothin'!”
“Mebbe. But ain't it good figgerin' to make Cleve do some kind of a job, even if he is on the square?”
They all acquiesced to this, even Kells slowly nodding his head.
“Jack, I've thought of another an' better job for young Cleve,” spoke up Jesse Smith, with his characteristic grin.
“You'll all be setting him jobs now,” replied Kells. “What's yours?”
“You spoke of plannin' to get together once more—what's left of us. An' there's thet bull-head Gulden.”
“You're sure right,” returned the leader, grimly, and he looked at Smith as if he would welcome any suggestion.
“I never was afraid to speak my mind,” went on Smith. Here he lost his grin and his coarse mouth grew hard. “Gulden will have to be killed if we're goin' to last!”
“Wood, what do you say?” queried Kells, with narrowing eyes.
Bate Wood nodded as approvingly as if he had been asked about his bread.
“Oliver, what do you say?”
“Wal, I'd love to wait an' see Gul hang, but if you press me, I'll agree to stand pat with the cards Jesse's dealt,” replied Handy Oliver.
Then Kells turned with a bright gleam upon his face. “And you—Pearce?”
“I'd say yes in a minute if I'd not have to take a hand in thet job,” replied Pearce, with a hard laugh. “Gulden won't be so easy to kill. He'll pack a gunful of lead. I'll gamble if the gang of us cornered him in this cabin he'd do for most of us before we killed him.”
“Gul sleep alone, no one knows where,” said Handy Oliver. “An' he can't be surprised. Red's correct. How're we goin' to kill him?”
“If you gents will listen you'll find out,” rejoined Jesse Smith. “Thet's the job for young Cleve. He can do it. Sure Gulden never was afraid of any man. But somethin' about Cleve bluffed him. I don't know what. Send Cleve out after Gulden. He'll call him face to face, anywhere, an' beat him to a gun!... Take my word for it.”
“Jesse, that's the grandest idea you ever had,” said Kells, softly. His eyes shone. The old power came back to his face. “I split on Gulden. With him once out of the way—!”
“Boss, are you goin' to make thet Jim Cleve's second job?” inquired Pearce, curiously.
“I am,” replied Kells, with his jaw corded and stiff. “If he pulls thet off you'll never hear a yap from me so long as I live. An' I'll eat out of Cleve's hand.”
Joan could bear to hear no more. She staggered to her bed and fell there, all cramped as if in a cold vise. However Jim might meet the situation planned for murdering Creede, she knew he would not shirk facing Gulden with deadly intent. He hated Gulden because she had a horror of him. Would these hours of suspense never end? Must she pass from one torture to another until—?
Sleep did not come for a long time. And when it did she suffered with nightmares from which it seemed she could never awaken.
The day, when at last it arrived, was no better than the night. It wore on endlessly, and she who listened so intently found it one of the silent days. Only Bate Wood remained at the cabin. He appeared kinder than usual, but Joan did not want to talk. She ate her meals, and passed the hours watching from the window and lying on the bed. Dusk brought Kells and Pearce and Smith, but not Jim Cleve. Handy Oliver and Blicky arrived at supper-time.
“Reckon Jim's appetite is pore,” remarked Bate Wood, reflectively. “He ain't been in to-day.”
