“Your company's not wanted.”
“Wal, I'll go anyway.”
This was only play at words, Joan thought. She divined in Roberts a cold and grim acceptance of something he had expected. And the voice of Kells—what did that convey? Still the man seemed slow, easy, kind, amiable.
“Haven't you got any sense, Roberts?” he asked.
Roberts made no reply to that.
“Go on home. Say nothing or anything—whatever you like,” continued Kells. “You did me a favor once over in California. I like to remember favors. Use your head now. Hit the trail.”
“Not without her. I'll fight first,” declared Roberts, and his hands began to twitch and jerk.
Joan did not miss the wonderful intentness of the pale-gray eyes that watched Roberts—his face, his glance, his hands.
“What good will it do to fight?” asked Kells. He laughed coolly. “That won't help her... You ought to know what you'll get.”
“Kells—I'll die before I leave that girl in your clutches,” flashed Roberts. “An' I ain't a-goin' to stand here an' argue with you. Let her come—or—”
“You don't strike me as a fool,” interrupted Kells. His voice was suave, smooth, persuasive, cool. What strength—what certainty appeared behind it! “It's not my habit to argue with fools. Take the chance I offer you. Hit the trail. Life is precious, man!... You've no chance here. And what's one girl more or less to you?”
“Kells, I may be a fool, but I'm a man,” passionately rejoined Roberts. “Why, you're somethin' inhuman! I knew that out in the gold-fields. But to think you can stand there—an' talk sweet an' pleasant—with no idee of manhood!... Let her come now—or—or I'm a-goin' for my gun!”
“Roberts, haven't you a wife—children?”
“Yes, I have,” shouted Roberts, huskily. “An' that wife would disown me if I left Joan Randle to you. An' I've got a grown girl. Mebbe some day she might need a man to stand between her an' such as you, Jack Kells!”
All Roberts' pathos and passion had no effect, unless to bring out by contrast the singular and ruthless nature of Jack Kells.
“Will you hit the trail?”
“No!” thundered Roberts.
Until then Joan Randle had been fascinated, held by the swift interchange between her friend and enemy. But now she had a convulsion of fear. She had seen men fight, but never to the death. Roberts crouched like a wolf at bay. There was a madness upon him. He shook like a rippling leaf. Suddenly his shoulder lurched—his arm swung.
Joan wheeled away in horror, shutting her eyes, covering her ears, running blindly. Then upon her muffled hearing burst the boom of a gun.
3
Joan ran on, stumbling over rocks and brush, with a darkness before her eyes, the terror in her soul. She was out in the cedars when someone grasped her from behind. She felt the hands as the coils of a snake. Then she was ready to faint, but she must not faint. She struggled away, stood free. It was the man Bill who had caught her. He said something that was unintelligible. She reached for the snag of a dead cedar and, leaning there, fought her weakness, that cold black horror which seemed a physical thing in her mind, her blood, her muscles.
When she recovered enough for the thickness to leave her sight she saw Kells coming, leading her horse and his own. At sight of him a strange, swift heat shot through her. Then she was confounded with the thought of Roberts.
“Ro—Roberts?” she faltered.
Kells gave her a piercing glance. “Miss Randle, I had to take the fight out of your friend,” he said.
“You—you—Is he—dead?”
“I just crippled his gun arm. If I hadn't he would have hurt somebody. He'll ride back to Hoadley and tell your folks about it. So they'll know you're safe.”
“Safe!” she whispered.
“That's what I said, Miss Randle. If you're going to ride out into the border—if it's possible to be safe out there you'll be so with me.”
“But I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”
“I couldn't think of it.”
“Then—what will you—do with me?”
Again that gray glance pierced her. His eyes were clear, flawless, like crystal, without coldness, warmth, expression. “I'll get a barrel of gold out of you.”
“How?” she asked, wonderingly.
“I'll hold you for ransom. Sooner or later those prospectors over there are going to strike gold. Strike it rich! I know that. I've got to make a living some way.”
Kells was tightening the cinch on her saddle while he spoke. His voice, his manner, the amiable smile on his intelligent face, they all appeared to come from sincerity. But for those strange eyes Joan would have wholly believed him. As it was, a half doubt troubled her. She remembered the character Roberts had given this man. Still, she was recovering her nerve. It had been the certainty of disaster to Roberts that had made her weaken. As he was only slightly wounded and free to ride home safely, she had not the horror of his death upon her. Indeed, she was now so immensely uplifted that she faced the situation unflinchingly.
“Bill,” called Kells to the man standing there with a grin on his coarse red face, “you go back and help Halloway pack. Then take my trail.”
Bill nodded, and was walking away when Kells called after him: “And say, Bill, don't say anything to Roberts. He's easily riled.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” laughed Bill.
His harsh laughter somehow rang jarringly in Joan's ears. But she was used to violent men who expressed mirth over mirthless jokes.
“Get up, Miss Randle,” said Kells as he mounted. “We've a long ride. You'll need all your strength. So I advise you to come quietly with me and not try to get away. It won't be any use trying.”
