Zane Grey (30 page)

"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; and 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 deep-drawn
breaths. Jim Cleve alone seemed quiet and cool. But his eyes were
ablaze.

"Fust off an' 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 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 an' heard them. An' I'd 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 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
thet 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 thet
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 he, 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 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 fortify herself to keep it secret—that he had divined it, had 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 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 a big stake! Then the trail
and the border."

He began pacing the floor. Budd and Smith strolled outside. Bate Wood
fumbled in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. Cleve sat down at the table
and leaned on his hands. No one took notice of the dead Pearce. Here was
somber and terrible sign of the wildness of the border clan—that Kells
could send out for a parson to marry him to a woman he hopelessly loved,
there in the presence of murder and death, with Pearce's distorted face
upturned in stark and ghastly significance.

It might have been a quarter of an hour, though to Joan it seemed an
endless time, until footsteps and voices outside announced the return of
Blicky.

He held by the arm a slight man whom he was urging along with no gentle
force. This stranger's face presented as great a contrast to Blicky's as
could have been imagined. His apparel proclaimed his calling. There were
consternation and bewilderment in his expression, but very little fear.

"He was preachin' down there in a tent," said Blicky, "an I jest waltzed
him up without explainin'."

"Sir, I want to be married at once," declared Kells, peremptorily.

"Certainly. I'm at your service," replied the preacher. "But I deplore
the—the manner in which I've been approached."

"You'll excuse haste," rejoined the bandit. "I'll pay you well." Kells
threw a small buckskin sack of gold-dust upon the table, and then he
turned to Joan. "Come, Joan," he said, in the tone that brooked neither
resistance nor delay.

It was at that moment that the preacher first noticed Joan. Was her
costume accountable for his start? Joan had remembered his voice and she
wondered if he would remember hers. Certainly Jim had called her Joan
more than once on the night of the marriage. The preacher's eyes grew
keener. He glanced from Joan to Kells, and then at the other men, who
had come in. Jim Cleve stood behind Jesse Smith's broad person, and
evidently the preacher did not see him. That curious gaze, however, next
discovered the dead man on the floor. Then to the curiosity and anxiety
upon the preacher's face was added horror.

"A minister of God is needed here, but not in the capacity you name," he
said. "I'll perform no marriage ceremony in the presence of—murder."

"Mr. Preacher, you'll marry me quick or you'll go along with him,"
replied Kells, deliberately.

"I cannot be forced." The preacher still maintained some dignity, but he
had grown pale.

"
I
can force you. Get ready now!... Joan, come here!"

Kells spoke sternly, yet something of the old, self-mocking spirit was
in his tone. His intelligence was deriding the flesh and blood of him,
the beast, the fool. It spoke that he would have his way and that the
choice was fatal for him.

Joan shook her head. In one stride Kells reached her and swung her
spinning before him. The physical violence acted strangely upon
Joan—roused her rage.

"I wouldn't marry you to save my life—even if I could!" she burst out.

At her declaration the preacher gave a start that must have been
suspicion or confirmation, or both. He bent low to peer into the face of
the dead Pearce. When he arose he was shaking his head. Evidently he had
decided that Pearce was not the man to whom he had married Joan.

"Please remove your mask," he said to Joan.

She did so, swiftly, without a tremor. The preacher peered into her
face again, as he had upon the night he had married her to Jim. He faced
Kells again.

"I am beyond your threats," he said, now with calmness. "I can't marry
you to a woman who already has a husband.... But I don't see that
husband here."

"You don't see that husband here!" echoed the bewildered Kells. He
stared with open mouth. "Say, have you got a screw loose?"

The preacher, in his swift glance, had apparently not observed the
half-hidden Cleve. Certainly it appeared now that he would have
no attention for any other than Kells. The bandit was a study. His
astonishment was terrific and held him like a chain. Suddenly he
lurched.

"What did you say?" he roared, his face flaming.

"I can't marry you to a woman who already has a husband."

Swift as light the red flashed out of Kells's face. "Did you ever see
her before?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the preacher.

"Where and when?"

"Here—at the back of this cabin—a few nights ago."

It hurt Joan to look at Kells now, yet he seemed wonderful to behold.
She felt as guilty as if she had really been false to him. Her
heart labored high in her breast. This was the climax—the moment of
catastrophe. Another word and Jim Cleve would be facing Kells. The blood
pressure in Joan's throat almost strangled her.

"At the back of this cabin!... At her window?"

"Yes."

"What were you there for?"

"In my capacity as minister. I was summoned to marry her."

"To marry her?" gasped Kells.

"Yes. She is Joan Randle, from Hoadley, Idaho. She is over eighteen. I
understood she was detained here against her will. She loved an honest
young miner of the camp. He brought me up here one night. And I married
them."

"YOU—MARRIED—THEM!"

"Yes."

Kells was slow in assimilating the truth and his action corresponded
with his mind. Slowly his hand moved toward his gun. He drew it, threw
it aloft. And then all the terrible evil in the man flamed forth. But
as he deliberately drew down on the preacher Blicky leaped forward and
knocked up the gun. Flash and report followed; the discharge went into
the roof. Blicky grasped Kells's arm and threw his weight upon it to
keep it down.

"I fetched thet parson here," he yelled, "an you ain't a-goin' to kill
him!... Help, Jesse!... He's crazy! He'll do it!"

Jesse Smith ran to Blicky's aid and tore the gun out of Kells's hand.
Jim Cleve grasped the preacher by the shoulders and, whirling him
around, sent him flying out of the door.

"Run for your life!" he shouted.

Blicky and Jesse Smith were trying to hold the lunging Kells.

"Jim, you block the door," called Jesse. "Bate, you grab any loose guns
an' knives.... Now, boss, rant an' be damned!"

They released Kells and backed away, leaving him the room. Joan's limbs
seemed unable to execute her will.

"Joan! It's true," he exclaimed, with whistling breath.

"Yes."

"WHO?" he bellowed.

"I'll never tell."

He reached for her with hands like claws, as if he meant to tear her,
rend her. Joan was helpless, weak, terrified. Those shaking, clutching
hands reached for her throat and yet never closed round it. Kells wanted
to kill her, but he could not. He loomed over her, dark, speechless,
locked in his paroxysm of rage. Perhaps then came a realization of ruin
through her. He hated her because he loved her. He wanted to kill her
because of that hate, yet he could not harm her, even hurt her. And his
soul seemed in conflict with two giants—the evil in him that was hate,
and the love that was good. Suddenly he flung her aside. She stumbled
over Pearce's body, almost falling, and staggered back to the wall.
Kells had the center of the room to himself. Like a mad steer in a
corral he gazed about, stupidly seeking some way to escape. But the
escape Kells longed for was from himself. Then either he let himself go
or was unable longer to control his rage. He began to plunge around. His
actions were violent, random, half insane. He seemed to want to destroy
himself and everything. But the weapons were guarded by his men and the
room contained little he could smash. There was something magnificent
in his fury, yet childish and absurd. Even under its influence and his
abandonment he showed a consciousness of its futility. In a few moments
the inside of the cabin was in disorder and Kells seemed a disheveled,
sweating, panting wretch. The rapidity and violence of his action,
coupled with his fury, soon exhausted him. He fell from plunging here
and there to pacing the floor. And even the dignity of passion passed
from him. He looked a hopeless, beaten, stricken man, conscious of
defeat.