Joan Randle rode on and on, through the cañon, out at its head and over a pass into another cañon, and never did she let it be possible for Kells to see her eyes until she knew beyond peradventure of a doubt that they hid the strength and spirit and secret of her soul.
The time came when traveling was so steep and rough that she must think first of her horse and her own safety. Kells led up over a rock-jumbled spur of range, where she had sometimes to follow on foot. It seemed miles across that wilderness of stone. Foxes and wolves trotted over open places, watching stealthily. All around dark mountain peaks stood up. The afternoon was far advanced when Kells started to descend again, and he rode a zigzag course on weathered slopes and over brushy benches, down and down into the canons again.
A lonely peak was visible, sunset-flushed against the blue, from the point where Kells finally halted. That ended the longest ride Joan had ever made in one day. For miles and miles they had climbed and descended and wound into the mountains. Joan had scarcely any idea of direction. She was completely turned around and lost. This spot was the wildest and most beautiful she had ever seen. A cañon headed here. It was narrow, low-walled, and luxuriant with grass and wild roses and willow and spruce and balsam. There were deer standing with long ears erect, motionless, curious, tame as cattle. There were moving streaks through the long grass, showing the course of smaller animals slipping away.
Then under a giant balsam, that reached aloft to the rim-wall, Joan saw a little log cabin, open in front. It had not been built very long; some of the log ends still showed yellow. It did not resemble the hunters' and prospectors' cabins she had seen on her trips with her uncle.
In a sweeping glance Joan had taken in these features. Kells had dismounted and approached her. She looked frankly, but not directly, at him.
“I'm tired—almost too tired to get off,” she said.
“Fifty miles of rock and brush, up and down! Without a kick!” he exclaimed, admiringly. “You've got sand, girl!”
“Where are we?”
“This is Lost Canon. Only a few men know of it. And they are—attached to me. I intend to keep you here.”
“How long?” She felt the intensity of his gaze.
“Why—as long as—” he replied, slowly, “till I get my ransom.”
“What amount will you ask?”
“You're worth a hundred thousand in gold right now... Maybe later I might let you go for less.”
Joan's keen-wrought perception registered his covert, scarcely veiled implication. He was studying her.
“Oh, poor uncle. He'll never, never get so much.”
“Sure he will,” replied Kells, bluntly.
Then he helped her out of the saddle. She was stiff and awkward, and she let herself slide. Kells handled her gently and like a gentleman, and for Joan the first agonizing moment of her ordeal was past. Her intuition had guided her correctly. Kells might have been and probably was the most depraved of outcast men; but the presence of a girl like her, however it affected him, must also have brought up associations of a time when by family and breeding and habit he had been infinitely different. His action here, just like the ruffian Bill's, was instinctive, beyond his control. Just this slight thing, this frail link that joined Kells to his past and better life, immeasurably inspirited Joan and outlined the difficult game she had to play.
“You're a very gallant robber,” she said.
He appeared not to hear that or to note it; he was eying her up and down; and he moved closer, perhaps to estimate her height compared to his own.
“I didn't know you were so tall. You're above my shoulder.”
“Yes, I'm very lanky.”
“Lanky! Why you're not that. You've a splendid figure—tall, supple, strong; you're like a Nez Perce girl I knew once.... You're a beautiful thing. Didn't you know that?”
“Not particularly. My friends don't dare flatter me. I suppose I'll have to stand it from you. But I didn't expect compliments from Jack Kells of the Border Legion.”
“Border Legion? Where'd you hear that name?”
“I didn't hear it. I made it up—thought of it myself.”
“Well, you've invented something I'll use.... And what's your name—your first name? I heard Roberts use it.”
Joan felt a cold contraction of all her internal being, but outwardly she never so much as nicked an eyelash. “My name's Joan.”
“Joan!” He placed heavy, compelling hands on her shoulders and turned her squarely toward him.
Again she felt his gaze, strangely, like the reflection of sunlight from ice. She had to look at him. This was her supreme test. For hours she had prepared for it, steeled herself, wrought upon all that was sensitive in her; and now she prayed, and swiftly looked up into his eyes. They were windows of a gray hell. And she gazed into that naked abyss, at that dark, uncovered soul, with only the timid anxiety and fear and the unconsciousness of an innocent, ignorant girl.
“Joan! You know why I brought you here?”
“Yes, of course; you told me,” she replied, steadily. “You want to ransom me for gold.... And I'm afraid you'll have to take me home without getting any.”
“You know what I mean to do to you,” he went on, thickly.
“Do to me?” she echoed, and she never quivered a muscle. “You—you didn't say.... I haven't thought.... But you won't hurt me, will you? It's not my fault if there's no gold to ransom me.”
He shook her. His face changed, grew darker. “You KNOW what I mean.”
“I don't.” With some show of spirit she essayed to slip out of his grasp. He held her the tighter.
“How old are you?”
It was only in her height and development that Joan looked anywhere near her age. Often she had been taken for a very young girl.
“I'm seventeen,” she replied. This was not the truth. It was a lie that did not falter on lips which had scorned falsehood.
“Seventeen!” he ejaculated in amaze. “Honestly, now?”
She lifted her chin scornfully and remained silent.
