Cabin Gulch (3 page)

Kells dismounted and offered his hand. Roberts took it and shook it constrainedly.

“Where did we meet last?” asked Kells.

“Reckon it was out of Fresno,” replied Roberts, and it was evident that he tried to hide the effect of a memory.

Then Kells touched his hat to Joan, giving her the fleetest kind of a glance.

“Rather off the track, aren't you?” he asked Roberts.

“Reckon we are,” replied Roberts, and he began to lose some of his restraint. His voice sounded clearer and did not halt. “Been trailin' Miss Randle's favorite hoss. He's lost. An' we got farther'n we had any idee. Then my hoss went lame. 'Fraid we can't start home tonight.”

“Where are you from?”

“Hoadley. Bill Hoadley's town back thirty miles or so.”

“Well, Roberts, if you've no objection, we'll camp here with you,” continued Kells. “We've got some fresh meat.”

With that he addressed a word to his comrades, and they repaired to a cedar tree nearby where they began to unsaddle and unpack.

Then Roberts, bending nearer Joan, as if intent on his own pack, began to whisper hoarsely: “That's Jack Kells . . . the California road agent. He's a gunfighter . . . a hell-bent rattlesnake. When I saw him last,
he had a rope 'round his neck an' was bein' led away to be hanged. I heard afterward he was rescued by pals. Joan, if the idee comes into his head, he'll kill me. I don't know what to do. For God's sake think of somethin'. Use your woman's wits. We couldn't be in a wuss fix.”

Joan felt rather unsteady on her feet, so that it was a relief to sit down. She was cold and sick inwardly, almost stunned. Some great peril menaced her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way without cause. She was brave; she was not unused to danger. But this must be a different kind—compared to which all she had experienced was but insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts's intimation. Why should he be killed? They had no gold—no valuables. Even their horses were nothing to inspire robbery. It must be that there was peril to Roberts and to her because she was a girl, caught out in the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil men. She had heard of such things happening. Still she could not believe it possible for her. Roberts could protect her. Then this amiable well-spoken Kells—he was no Western rough—he spoke like an educated man—surely he would not harm her. So her mind revolved around fears, conjectures, possibilities; she could not find her wits. She could not think how to meet the situation, even had she divined what the situation was to be.

While she sat there in the shade of a cedar, the men busied themselves with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any attention to Joan. They talked while they worked as any other group of campers might have talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a fire, and carried water, then broke cedar boughs for later campfire use; one of the strangers who they called Bill hobbled the horses; the other unrolled the pack, spread a tarpaulin, and
emptied the greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit dough for the oven.

The sun sank and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread and coffee and venison.

“Here's your supper, Joan,” he called quite loudly and cheerily, and then he whispered: “Mebbe it ain't so bad. They-all seem friendly. But I'm scared, Joan. If you jest wasn't so damn' handsome, or if only he hadn't seen you.”

“Can't we slip off in the dark?” she whispered in return.

“We might try. But it'd be no use if they mean bad. I can't make up my mind yet what's comin' off. It's all right for you to pretend you're bashful. But don't lose your nerve.”

Then he returned to the campfire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. Although dread abided with her, she grew curious. She imagined she was almost fascinated by her predicament. She had always been an emotional girl of strong will and self-restraint. She had always longed for she knew not what—perhaps freedom. Certain places had haunted her. She had felt that something should have happened to her there. Yet nothing ever had happened. Certain books had obsessed her, even when a child, and often to her mother's dismay, for those books had been of wild places and life on the sea, adventure and bloodshed. It had always been said of her that she should have been a boy.

Night settled down black. A pale narrow cloud, marked by a train of stars, extended across the dense blue sky. The wind moaned in the cedars and roared in the replenished campfire. Sparks flew away into
the shadows. In the puffs of smoke that blew toward her came the sweet pungent odor of burning cedar. Coyotes barked off under the brush, and from away on the ridge drifted the dismal defiance of a wolf.

Camp life was no new thing to Joan. She had crossed the plains in a wagon train, that more than once had known the long-drawn yell of hostile Indians. She had prospected and hunted in the mountains with her uncle, weeks at a time. But never before this night had the wildness, the loneliness been so vivid to her.

Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with wet sand. His big shaggy head nodded in the firelight. He seemed pondering and thick and slow. There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and his companion lay back against stones and conversed low. Kells stood up in the light of the blaze. He had a pipe at which he took long pulls and then sent up clouds of smoke. There was nothing imposing in his build or striking in his face, at that distance, but it took no second look to see that here was a man remarkably out of the ordinary. Some kind of power and intensity emanated from him. From time to time he appeared to glance in Joan's direction; still she could not be sure, for his eyes were but shadows. He had cast aside his coat. He wore a vest open all the way and a checked soft shirt with a black tie, hanging untidily. A broad belt swung below his hip and in the holster was a heavy gun. That was a strange place to carry a gun, Joan thought. It looked awkward to her. When he walked, it might swing around and bump against his leg, and he would certainly have to put it some other place when he rode.

“Say, have you got a blanket for that girl?” asked Kells, removing his pipe from his lips to address Roberts.

“I got saddle blankets,” responded Roberts. “You see, we didn't expect to be caught out.”

He returned with a blanket that he threw to Roberts.

“Much obliged,” muttered Roberts.

“I'll bunk by the fire,” went on the other, and with that he sat down and appeared to become absorbed in thought.

Roberts brought the borrowed blanket and several saddle blankets over to where Joan was, and, laying them down, he began to kick and scrape stones and brush aside.

“Pretty rocky place . . . this here is,” he said. “Reckon you'll sleep some, though.”

Then he began arranging the blankets into a bed. Presently Joan felt a tug at her riding skirt. She looked down.

“I'll be right by you,” he whispered, with his hand to his mouth, “an' I ain't a-goin' to sleep none.”

Whereupon he returned to the campfire. Presently Joan, not because she was tired or sleepy, but because she wanted to act naturally, lay down on the bed and pulled a blanket up over her. There was no more talking among the men. Once she heard the jingle of spurs and the rustle of cedar brush. By and by Roberts came back to her, dragging his saddle, and lay down near her. Joan raised up a little to see Kells, motionless and absorbed beside the fire. He had a strained and tense position. She sank back softly and looked up at the cold bright stars. What was going to happen to her? Something terrible! The very night shadows, the silence, the presence of strange men—all told her. A shudder that was a thrill ran over and over her.

She would lie awake. It would be impossible to sleep. And suddenly into her full mind flashed an
idea to slip away in the darkness, find her horse, and so escape from any possible menace. This plan occupied her thoughts for a long while. If she had not been used to Western ways, she would have tried just that thing. But she rejected it. She was not sure that she could slip away—or find her horse—or elude pursuit—and certainly she was not sure of her way home. It would be best to stay with Roberts.

When that was settled, her mind ceased to race. She grew languid and sleepy. The warmth of the blankets stole over her. She had no idea of sleeping, yet she found sleep more and more difficult to resist. Time that must have been hours passed. The fire died down, and then brightened; the shadows darkened, and then lightened. Someone now and then got up to throw on wood. The
thump
of hobbled hoofs sounded out in the darkness. The wind was still and the coyotes had gone. She could no longer open her eyes. They seemed glued shut. Then, gradually, all sense of the night and the wild faded in the drowsy warmth.

When she awoke, the air was nipping cold. Her eyes snapped open, clear and bright. The lips of the cedars were ruddy in the sunrise. A campfire crackled. Blue smoke curled upward. Joan sat up with a rush of memory. Roberts and Kells were bustling around the fire. The man Bill was carrying water. The other fellow had brought in the horses and was taking off the hobbles. No one apparently paid any attention to Joan. She got up and combed out her tangled hair, which she always wore in a braid down her back when she rode. She had slept, then, and in her boots. That was the first time she had ever done that. When she went down to the brook to bathe her face and wash her hands, the men still apparently took no notice of her. She began to hope that Roberts had exaggerated their danger. Her horse was rather
skittish and did not care for strange hands. He broke away from the bunch. Joan went after him, even lost sight of camp. Presently, after she caught him, she led him back to camp and tied him up. And then she was so far emboldened as to approach the fire and to greet the men.

“Good morning,” she said brightly.

Kells had his back turned at the moment. He did not move or speak or give any sign that he had heard. The man Bill stared boldly at her, but without a word. Roberts returned her greeting, and, as she glanced quickly at him, drawn by his voice, he turned away. But she had seen that his face was dark, haggard, worn.

Joan's cheer and hope sustained a sudden and violent check. There was something wrong in this group and she could not guess what it was. She seemed to have a queer dragging weight at her limbs. She was glad to move over to a stone and sink down upon it. Roberts brought her breakfast, but he did not speak or look at her. His hands shook. This frightened Joan. What was going to happen? Roberts went back to the campfire. Joan had to force herself to eat. There was one thing of which she was sure—that she would need all the strength and fortitude she could summon.

Joan became aware presently that Kells was conversing with Roberts, but too low for her to hear what he said. She saw Roberts make a gesture of fierce protest. About the other man there was an air cool, persuading, dominant. He ceased speaking, as if the incident were closed. Roberts hurried and blundered through his task with his pack, and then went for his horse. The animal limped slightly but evidently was not in bad shape. Roberts saddled him, tied on the pack. Then he saddled Joan's horse. That done, he
squared around with the front of a man who had to face something he dreaded.

“Come on, Joan, we're ready!” he called. His voice was loud, but not natural.

Joan started to cross to him when Kells strode between them. She might not have been there for all the sign this ominous man gave of her presence. He confronted Roberts in the middle of the camp circle, and halted, perhaps a rod distant.

“Roberts, get on your horse and clear out,” he said.

Roberts dropped his halter and straightened up. It was a bolder action than any he had heretofore given. Perhaps the mask was off now; he was wholly sure of what he had only feared; subterfuge and blindness were in vain; now he could be a man. Some change worked in his face—a blanching—a setting.

“No, I won't go without the girl,” he said.

“But you can't take her.”

Joan vibrated to a sudden start. So this was what was going to happen. Her heart almost stood still. Breathless and quivering, she watched these two men, about whom now all was strangely magnified.

“Reckon I'll go along with you, then,” replied Roberts.

“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 I'm a-goin' for my gun!”