Cabin Gulch (30 page)

Next morning, Joan awaited Kells as was her custom, but he did not appear. This was the third time in a week that he had forgotten or avoided her or had been prevented from seeing her. Joan was glad, yet the fact was not reassuring. The issue for Kells was growing from trouble to disaster.

Early in the afternoon she heard Kells returning from camp. He had men with him. They conversed in low earnest tones. Joan was about to spy upon them when Kells's steps approached her door. He rapped and spoke: “Put on Dandy Dale's suit and mask, and come out here.”

The tone of his voice as much as the contents of his words startled Joan so that she did not at once reply.

“Do you hear?” he called sharply.

“Yes,” replied Joan.

Then he went back to the men, and the low earnest conversation was renewed.

Reluctantly Joan took down Dandy Dale's things from the pegs and with a recurring shame she divested herself of part of her clothes and donned the suit and boots and mask and gun. Her spirit rose, however, at the thought that this would be a disguise calculated to aid her in the escape with Cleve. But why had Kells ordered the change? Was he in danger
and did he mean to flee from Alder Creek? Joan found the speculation a relief from that haunting persistent thought of Jim Cleve and Gulden. She was eager to learn, still she hesitated at the door. It was just as hard as ever to face those men. But it must be, so with a wrench she stepped out boldly.

Kells looked worn and gray. He had not slept. But his face did not wear the shade she had come to associate with his gambling and drinking. Six other men were present, and Joan noted coats and gloves and weapons and spurs. Kells turned to address her. His face lighted fleetingly.

“I want you to be ready to ride any minute,” he said.

“Why?” asked Joan.

“We may
have
to, that's all,” he replied.

His men, usually so keen when they had a chance to ogle Joan, now scarcely gave her a glance. They were a dark grim group, with hard eyes and tight lips. Handy Oliver was speaking.

“I tell you, Gulden swore he seen Creede . . . on the road . . . in the lamplight . . . last night
after
Jim Cleve got here.”

“Gulden must have been mistaken,” declared Kells impatiently.

“He ain't the kind to make mistakes,” replied Oliver.

“Gul's seen Creede's ghost . . . thet's what,” suggested Blicky uneasily. “I've seen a few . . . in my time.”

Some of the bandits nodded gloomily.

“Hell!” burst out Red Pearce, “Gulden never seen a ghost in his life. If he seen Creede, he's seen him alive!”

“Shore you're right, Red,” agreed Jesse Smith.

“But man . . . Cleve brought in Creede's belt . . .
and we've divided the gold,” said Kells. “You all know Creede would have to be dead before that belt could be unbuckled from him. There's a mistake.”

“Boss, it's my idee that Gul is only makin' more trouble,” put in Bate Wood. “I seen him less than an hour ago. I was the first one Gul talked to. An' he knew Jim Cleve did for Creede. How'd he know? Thet was supposed to be a secret. What's more Gul told me Cleve was on the job to kill him. How'd he ever find that out? Sure as God made little apples, Cleve never told him.”

Kells's face grew livid and his whole body vibrated. “Maybe one of Gulden's gang was outside, listening, when we planned Cleve's job,” he suggested. But his look belied his hope.

“Naw! There's a nigger in the woodpile, you can gamble on thet,” blurted out the sixth bandit, a lean-faced bold-eyed, blond-mustached fellow whose name Joan had never heard.

“I won't believe it,” replied Kells doggedly. “And you, Budd, you're accusing somebody present of treachery . . . or else Cleve. He's the only one not here who knew.”

“Wal, I always said that youngster was slick,” replied Budd.

“Will you accuse him to his face?”

“I shore will. Glad of the chance.”

“Then you're drunk or just a fool.”

“Thet so?”

“Yes, that's so,” flashed Kells. “You don't know Cleve. He'll kill you. He's lightning with a gun. Do you suppose I'd set him on Gulden's trail if I wasn't sure? Why, I wouldn't care to. . . .”

“Here comes Cleve,” interrupted Pearce sharply.

Rapid footsteps sounded without. Then Joan saw
Jim Cleve darken the doorway. He looked keen and bold. Upon sight of Joan in her changed attire he gave a slight start.

“Budd, here's Cleve!” called out Red Pearce mockingly. “Now say it to his face.”

In the silence that ensued Pearce's spirit dominated the moment with its cunning, hate, and violence. But Kells savagely leaped in front of the men, still master of the situation.

“Damn you, Red, what's got into you?” he hissed. “You're cross-grained lately. You're sore. Any more of this and I'll swear you're a disorganizer. . . . Now, Budd, you keep your mouth shut. And you, Cleve, you pay no heed to Budd if he does gab. . . . We're in bad and all the men have chips on their shoulders. We've got to stop fighting among ourselves.”

“Wal, boss, there's a power of sense in a good example,” dryly remarked Bate Wood. His remark calmed Kells and eased the situation.

“Jim . . . did you meet Gulden?” queried Kells eagerly.

“Can't find him anywhere,” replied Cleve. “I've loafed in the saloons and gambling halls where he hangs out. But he didn't show up. He's in camp. I know that for a fact. He's lying low for some reason.”

“Gulden's been tipped off, Jim,” said Kells earnestly. “He told Bate Wood you were out to kill him.”

“I'm glad. It wasn't a fair hand you were going to deal him,” replied Cleve. “But you gave my job away? Someone in this gang wants me done for . . . more than Gulden.”

Cleve's flashing gaze swept over the motionless men, and fixed hardest upon Red Pearce. Pearce gave back hard look for hard look.

“Gulden told Oliver more,” continued Kells, and
he pulled Cleve around to face him. “Gulden swore he saw Creede alive last night . . .
late last night
.”

“That's funny,” replied Cleve without the flicker of an eyelash.

“It's not funny. But it's queer. Gulden hasn't the moral sense to lie. Bate says he wants to make trouble between you and me. I doubt that. I don't believe Gulden could see a ghost, either. He's simply mistaken some miner for Creede.”

“He sure has, unless Creede came back to life. I'm not sitting on his chest now, holding him down.”

Kells drew back, manifestly convinced and relieved. This action seemed to be a magnet for Pearce. He detached himself from the group and, approaching Kells, tapped him significantly on the shoulder. Whether by design or accident the fact was that he took a position where Kells was between him and Cleve.

“Jack, you're being double-crossed here . . . an' by more'n one,” he said deliberately. “But if you want me to talk, you've got to guarantee no gun play.”

“Speak up, Red,” replied Kells with a glinting eye. “I swear there won't be a gun pulled.”

The other men shifted from one foot to another and there were deeply drawn breaths. Jim Cleve alone seemed quiet and cool. But his eyes were ablaze.

“Fust off, for instance, here's one who's double-crossin' you,” said Pearce in slow tantalizing speech, as if he wore out this suspense to torture Kells. And without ever glancing at Joan, he jerked a thumb in significant gesture at her.

Joan leaned back against the wall, trembling and cold all over. She read Pearce's mind. He knew her secret and meant to betray her and Jim. He hated Kells and wanted to torture him. If only she could
think quickly and speak! But she seemed dumb and powerless.

“Pearce, what in hell do you mean?” demanded Kells.

“The girl's double-crossin' you,” replied Pearce. With the uttered words he grew pale and agitated.

Suddenly Kells appeared to become aware of Joan's presence and that the implication was directed toward her. Then, many and remarkable as had been the changes Joan had seen come over him, now occurred one wholly greater. It had all his old amiability, his cool easy manner, veiling a deep and hidden ruthlessness, terrible in contrast.

“Red, I thought our talk concerned men and gold and . . . things,” he said with a cool, slow softness that had a sting, “but since you've nerve enough or are crazy enough to speak of . . .
her
. . . why, explain your meaning.”

Pearce's jaw worked so that he could scarcely talk. He had gone too far—realized it too late.

“She meets a man . . . back there . . . at her window,” he panted. “They whisper in the dark for hours. I've watched and heard them. An' I'd've told you before, but I wanted to make sure who he was. I know him now. An', remember, I seen him climb in an' out. . . .”

Kells's whole frame leaped. His gun was a flash of blue and red and white all together. Pearce swayed upright, like a tree chopped at the roots, and then fell, face up, eyes set—dead. The bandit leader stood over him with the smoking gun.

“My Gawd, Jack!” gasped Handy Oliver. “You swore no one would pull a gun . . . an' here you've killed him yourself! You've double-crossed yourself! An', if I die for it, I've got to tell you Red wasn't lyin' then!”

Kells's radiance fled, leaving him ghastly. He stared at Oliver.

“You've double-crossed yourself an' your pards,” went on Oliver pathetically. “What's your word of honor amount to? Do you expect the gang to stand for this? There lays Red Pearce, dead. An' for what? Jest once . . . relyin' on your oath . . . he speaks out what might have showed you. An' you kill him! If I knowed what he knowed, I'd tell you now with that gun in your hand. But I don't know. Only I know he wasn't lyin' Ask the girl! An', as for me, I reckon I'm through with you an' your legion. You're done, Kells. Your head's gone . . . you've broke over that slip of a woman!”

Oliver spoke with a rude and impressive dignity. When he ended, he strode out into the sunlight.

Kells was shaken by this forceful speech, yet he was not in any sense a broken man.

“Joan . . . you heard Pearce,” said Kells passionately. “He lied about you. I had to kill him. He hinted . . . oh, the low-lived dog! He could not know a good woman. He lied . . . and there he is . . . dead! I wouldn't fetch him back for a hundred legions.”

“But it . . . it wasn't . . . all . . . a lie,” said Joan, and her words came haltingly because a force stronger than her cunning made her speak. She had reached a point where she could not deceive Kells to save her life.

“What?” he thundered.

“Pearce told the truth . . . except that no one ever climbed in my window. That's false. No one could climb in. It's too small. But I did whisper . . . to someone.”

Kells had to moisten his lips to speak. “Who?”

“I'll never tell you.”

“Who? I'll kill him!”

“No . . . no, I won't tell. I won't let you kill another man on my account.”

“I'll choke it out of you.”

“You can't. There's no use to threaten me . . . or hurt me, either.”

Kells seemed dazed. “Whisper! For hours! In the dark! But Joan, what for? Why such a risk?”

Joan shook her head.

“Were you just unhappy . . . lonesome? Did some young miner happen to see you there in daylight . . . then come at night? Wasn't it only accident? Tell me.”

“I won't . . . and I won't because I don't want you to spill more blood.”

“For my sake?” he queried with the old mocking tone. Then he grew dark with the blood in his face, fierce with action of hands and body as he bent nearer her. “Maybe you like him too well to see him shot? Did you . . . whisper often to this stranger?”

Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so powerful in spirit and passion that she seemed unable to fight him. She strove to withhold her reply, but it burst forth involuntarily. “Yes . . . often.”

That roused more than anger and passion. Jealousy flamed from him and it transformed him into a devil. “You held hands out of that window . . . and kissed . . . in the dark?” he cried with working lips.

Joan had thought of this so fearfully and intensely—she had battled so to keep it secret that he had divined it and read her mind. She could not control herself. The murder of Pearce had almost overwhelmed her. She had not the strength to bite her tongue. Suggestion alone would have drawn her then—and Kells's passionate force was hypnotic. “Yes,” she whispered.

He appeared to control a developing paroxysm of rage. “That settles you,” he declared darkly. “But I'll
do one more decent thing by you. I'll marry you.” Then he wheeled to his men. “Blicky, there's a parson down in camp. Go on the run. Fetch him back if you have to push him with a gun.”

Blicky darted through the door and his footsteps thudded out of hearing.

“You can't force me to marry you,” said Joan. “I . . . I won't open my lips.”

“That's your affair. I've no mind to coax you,” he replied bitterly. “But if you don't, I'll try Gulden's way with a woman. You remember. Gulden's way! A cave and a rope!”

Joan's legs gave out under her and she sank upon a pile of blankets. Then beyond Kells she saw Jim Cleve. With all that was left of her spirit she flashed him a warning—a meaning—a prayer not to do the deed she divined was his deadly intent. He caught it and he obeyed, and he flashed back a glance which meant that, desperate as her case was, it could never be what Kells threatened.

“Men, see me through this,” said Kells to the silent group. “Then any deal you want . . . I'm on. Stay here or . . . sack the camp! Hold up the stage express with gold for Bannack! Anything for the big stake! Then the trail and the border.”