“We'd better run for it at the first chance,” he said, somberly.
“No!... GULDEN!” Joan had to moisten her lips to speak the monster's name.
“He'll never think of you while he has all that gold.”
Joan's intelligence grasped this, but her morbid dread, terribly augmented now, amounted almost to a spell. Still, despite the darkness of her mind, she had a flash of inspiration and of spirit.
“Kells is my only hope!... If he doesn't join us soon—then we'll run!... And if we can't escape that”—Joan made a sickening gesture toward the fore—“you must kill me before—before—”
Her voice trailed off, failing.
“I will!” he promised through locked teeth.
And then they rode on, with dark, faces bent over the muddy water and treacherous stones.
When Jesse Smith led out of that brook it was to ride upon bare rock. He was not leaving any trail. Horses and riders were of no consideration. And he was a genius for picking hard ground and covering it. He never slackened his gait, and it seemed next to impossible to keep him in sight.
For Joan the ride became toil and the toil became pain. But there was no rest. Smith kept mercilessly onward. Sunset and twilight and night found the cavalcade still moving. Then it halted just as Joan was about to succumb. Jim lifted her off her horse and laid her upon the grass. She begged for water, and she drank and drank. But she wanted no food. There was a heavy, dull beating in her ears, a band tight round her forehead. She was aware of the gloom, of the crackling of fires, of leaping shadows, of the passing of men to and fro near her, and, most of all, rendering her capable of a saving shred of self-control, she was aware of Jim's constant companionship and watchfulness. Then sounds grew far off and night became a blur.
Morning when it came seemed an age removed from that hideous night. Her head had cleared, and but for the soreness of body and limb she would have begun the day strong. There appeared little to eat and no time to prepare it. Gulden was rampant for action. Like a miser he guarded the saddle packed with gold. This tune his comrades were as eager as he to be on the move. All were obsessed by the presence of gold. Only one hour loomed in their consciousness—that of the hour of division. How fatal and pitiful and terrible! Of what possible use or good was gold to them?
The ride began before sunrise. It started and kept on at a steady trot. Smith led down out of the rocky slopes and fastnesses into green valleys. Jim Cleve, riding bareback on a lame horse, had his difficulties. Still he kept close beside or behind Joan all the way. They seldom spoke, and then only a word relative to this stern business of traveling in the trail of a hard-riding bandit. Joan bore up better this day, as far as her mind was concerned. Physically she had all she could do to stay in the saddle. She learned of what steel she was actually made—what her slender frame could endure. That day's ride seemed a thousand miles long, and never to end. Yet the implacable Smith did finally halt, and that before dark.
Camp was made near water. The bandits were a jovial lot, despite a lack of food. They talked of the morrow. All—the world—lay beyond the next sunrise. Some renounced their pipes and sought their rest just to hurry on the day. But Gulden, tireless, sleepless, eternally vigilant, guarded the saddle of gold and brooded over it, and seemed a somber giant carved out of the night. And Blicky, nursing some deep and late-developed scheme, perhaps in Kells's interest or his own, kept watch over Gulden and all.
Jim cautioned Joan to rest, and importuned her and promised to watch while she slept.
Joan saw the stars through her shut eyelids. All the night seemed to press down and softly darken.
The sun was shining red when the cavalcade rode up Cabin Gulch. The grazing cattle stopped to watch and the horses pranced and whistled. There were flowers and flitting birds, and glistening dew on leaves, and a shining swift flow of water—the brightness of morning and nature smiled in Cabin Gulch.
Well indeed Joan remembered the trail she had ridden so often. How that clump of willow where first she had confronted Jim thrilled her now! The pines seemed welcoming her. The gulch had a sense of home in it for her, yet it was fearful. How much had happened there! What might yet happen!
Then a clear, ringing call stirred her pulse. She glanced up the slope. Tall and straight and dark, there on the bench, with hand aloft, stood the bandit Kells.
19
The weary, dusty cavalcade halted on the level bench before the bandit's cabin. Gulden boomed a salute to Kells. The other men shouted greeting. In the wild exultation of triumph they still held him as chief. But Kells was not deceived. He even passed by that heavily laden, gold-weighted saddle. He had eyes only for Joan.
“Girl, I never was so glad to see any one!” he exclaimed in husky amaze. “How did it happen? I never—”
Jim Cleve leaned over to interrupt Kells. “It was great, Kells—that idea of yours putting us in the stagecoach you meant to hold up,” said Cleve, with a swift, meaning glance. “But it nearly was the end of us. You didn't catch up. The gang didn't know we were inside, and they shot the old stage full of holes.”
“Aha! So that's it,” replied Kells, slowly. “But the main point is—you brought her through. Jim, I can't ever square that.”
“Oh, maybe you can,” laughed Cleve, as he dismounted.
Suddenly Kells became aware of Joan's exhaustion and distress. “Joan, you're not hurt?” he asked in swift anxiety.
“No, only played out.”
“You look it. Come.” He lifted her out of the saddle and, half carrying, half leading her, took her into the cabin, and through the big room to her old apartment. How familiar it seemed to Joan! A ground-squirrel frisked along a chink between the logs, chattering welcome. The place was exactly as Joan had left it.
Kells held Joan a second, as if he meant to embrace her, but he did not. “Lord, it's good to see you! I never expected to again.... But you can tell me all about yourself after you rest.... I was just having breakfast. I'll fetch you some.”
“Were you alone here?” asked Joan.
“Yes. I was with Bate and Handy—”
“Hey, Kells!” roared the gang, from the outer room.
Kells held aside the blanket curtain so that Joan was able to see through the door. The men were drawn up in a half-circle round the table, upon which were the bags of gold.
Kells whistled low. “Joan, there'll be trouble now,” he said, “but don't you fear. I'll not forget you.”
Despite his undoubted sincerity Joan felt a subtle change in him, and that, coupled with the significance of his words, brought a return of the strange dread. Kells went out and dropped the curtain behind him. Joan listened.
“Share and share alike!” boomed the giant Gulden.
“Say!” called Kells, gaily, “aren't you fellows going to eat first?”
Shouts of derision greeted his sally.
“I'll eat gold-dust,” added Budd.
“Have it your own way, men,” responded Kells. “Blicky, get the scales down off of that shelf.... Say, I'll bet anybody I'll have the most dust by sundown.”
More shouts of derision were flung at him.
