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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In "The Border Legion," Zane Grey weaves a compelling narrative set against the backdrop of the American West, exploring themes of loyalty, morality, and the struggle for redemption. The novel's literary style is marked by Grey's signature vivid imagery and lyrical prose, transporting readers into the rugged terrain and turbulent lives of outlaws and miners. A striking blend of adventure and psychological depth, the work captures the essence of early 20th-century frontier mystique intertwined with a poignant exploration of the human condition, reflecting the socio-political tensions of its time. Zane Grey, an avid outdoorsman and skilled fisherman, drew much inspiration from his own experiences in the West, which informed his understanding of its varied landscapes and cultures. Born in 1872, Grey wrote extensively on themes related to nature and the human spirit, with "The Border Legion" emerging as a testament to his fascination with the untamed life of the western frontier. His background as a dentist, combined with a passion for writing, ultimately led him to create stories that resonated deeply with his readers. This novel is highly recommended for those interested in classic American literature and the exploration of themes such as adventure and personal transformation. Grey's masterful storytelling will captivate both western enthusiasts and those seeking a rich narrative filled with emotional depth and complexity. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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THE BORDER LEGION
Table of Contents
Introduction
On a raw frontier where gold fever, outlaw codes, and the ache for belonging collide, The Border Legion pursues a stark question that drives every desperate choice its characters make: whether a person shaped by violence and fear can still claim honor, love, and a future, and whether a society without stable law can forge justice from chaos without losing its soul in the very methods it adopts to survive, as perilous landscapes, shifting loyalties, and the harsh arithmetic of survival press individuals to their limits and reveal the fragile boundary between ruin and redemption.
The Border Legion is a Western novel by Zane Grey, a central figure in early twentieth-century popular fiction whose work helped crystallize the modern image of the American West. First published in the mid-1910s, the book is set amid remote mountain mining camps during the gold-rush era, a historical backdrop defined by sudden wealth, lawlessness, and transient communities. Readers encounter a world poised between wilderness and settlement, where rudimentary institutions struggle to contain greed and violence. In this context, Grey’s story unfolds as both adventure and moral study, aligning the genre’s rugged action with an examination of character under pressure.
The premise is deceptively simple and immediately engaging. After a quarrel that exposes youthful pride and doubt, a hotheaded young man flees toward the diggings in search of fortune and self-respect, while the woman who challenged him follows, driven by concern and conviction. Their separate paths converge with a notorious outlaw band known as the Border Legion, whose operations dominate the margins of the camps and roads. From this setup, the novel becomes a tense study of entanglement and choice, keeping the focus on internal reckonings as much as outward danger, and inviting readers to weigh motives alongside deeds.
Grey’s narrative voice blends swift, suspenseful movement with panoramic description, using stark mountains, canyons, and weather as more than scenery. The landscape mirrors moral states, alternately sheltering and threatening those who traverse it. Action sequences arrive with crisp intensity, but the novel’s heart lies in watching characters measure themselves against fear, temptation, and obligation. The mood shifts from claustrophobic menace in outlaw strongholds to the austere clarity of open country, creating emotional contrast that amplifies every decision. Without relying on sentimentality, the prose sustains a quiet romantic tension and a pervasive unease, making the smallest gesture feel consequential.
At its core, The Border Legion probes competing visions of justice: the precarious rule of camp councils, the swift violence of vigilantism, and the private oath of conscience. It asks what loyalty is worth when allegiance to a group conflicts with allegiance to what is right, and how courage differs from recklessness when survival is at stake. Questions of identity run throughout, as characters test roles imposed by reputation, gender expectations, and the brutal economy of the camps. The novel also considers redemption not as a single turning point but as a series of difficult choices, each carrying risk and cost.
These concerns give the book a contemporary resonance. In uncertain times, communities still wrestle with how to uphold order when institutions feel distant or inadequate, and individuals still face the lure of expedient power against patient principle. Readers may recognize in Grey’s mining camps the pressures of boom-and-bust life, where speculation distorts value and trust. The frontier’s physical dangers echo modern extremes that force quick judgments. The novel’s scrutiny of violence—its allure, its aftermath, and its moral erosion—invites reflection without prescribing easy answers, while its attention to endurance, empathy, and ethical clarity offers a counterweight to spectacle.
For today’s readers, The Border Legion offers a classic Western experience—lean, tense, and atmospheric—balanced by a thoughtful moral arc. It rewards those who appreciate rugged settings, psychological stakes, and the gradual unveiling of character under stress. The book also reflects its era, including depictions of violence and period attitudes, which attentive readers can assess alongside the story’s enduring questions. As an entry point to Zane Grey, it showcases the blend of action and conscience that shaped the genre’s later traditions in film and fiction, while standing on its own as a taut, humane meditation on peril, choice, and the possibility of change.
Synopsis
Zane Grey’s The Border Legion opens in the American West during the gold rush era, where rough camps and lonely trails test character as much as skill. Joan Randle, a determined young woman, clashes with Jim Cleve, a restless suitor she accuses of lacking purpose. Stung by her words, Jim heads for the border country, a world of prospectors, gamblers, and road agents. Regretting her harshness, Joan follows, hoping to make amends before hardship or violence overtakes him. The novel establishes a landscape of stark beauty and peril, where the line between survival and wrongdoing narrows under the pressures of isolation and greed.
Jim’s path west reveals sprawling diggings, feverish rumors of strikes, and a frayed social order. Towns spring up overnight, drawing fortune seekers and opportunists. Meanwhile, Joan’s journey brings her into treacherous terrain and the orbit of outlaws who patrol remote passes. She is taken by the feared leader Jack Kells, a figure whose authority rests on nerve, calculation, and a reputation for swift violence. The capture thrusts Joan into a clandestine world where silence keeps one alive and mercy is scarce. She must weigh every word and glance, guarding her identity while seeking a way to protect herself—and eventually, Jim.
Kells presides over the Border Legion, a disciplined band of road agents who control key trails and prey on shipments moving between boomtowns. Their methods are efficient: hidden camps, scouting parties, and strict rules backed by brutal enforcement. Joan’s presence becomes a volatile secret, managed by Kells with a combination of restraint and possession. She witnesses the gang’s planning, the flow of stolen dust, and the constant fear of betrayal from within. Observation becomes her defense; the more she learns, the better she can anticipate danger. Grey builds tension around her captivity, framing the outlaw world as both orderly and inherently unstable.
Parallel to Joan’s ordeal, Jim’s disillusionment deepens as he confronts the rough justice of the camps. Drawn into disputes and near-fatal confrontations, he is pulled toward the orbit of Kells and the legion. Circumstances and pride push him into company he once despised, where he learns the trade of ambush, escape routes, and the value of a steady hand. Yet the knowledge carries a cost. Jim must navigate shifting loyalties while maintaining a foothold in his former self. The chaptered rhythm of recruits, plots, and raids expands the novel’s canvas, showing how the frontier’s lawlessness tests men’s identities as much as their courage.
Joan’s situation grows more complex when her path intersects with Jim’s under perilous conditions that demand secrecy. She adopts protective guises, measures every risk, and exploits moments when the legion’s vigilance wavers. Kells’s attitude toward her alternates between cold mastery and uneasy fascination, an internal conflict that mirrors the gang’s fraying cohesion. Joan tends wounds, listens for plans, and searches for openings that might spare lives. Her calm decisiveness contrasts with the volatility around her, turning her into a stabilizing force in a lawless enclave. The narrative narrows to question who will act first, and what a single misstep will cost.
As the legion pursues rich targets on the border—rumored bonanzas, guarded pack trains, secret caches—rivalries sharpen. Figures like the formidable Gulden and the crafty Red Pearce challenge Kells’s control, while lesser men weigh whether fear or profit should guide them. Disputes over spoils and strategy reveal fissures in the outlaw code. The geography tightens: steep canyons, covert trails, and hidden caves become chessboard squares in a widening game. Joan’s caution grows as new threats emerge within the gang itself. Jim measures the escalating stakes against a shrinking margin for retreat. Each raid raises the likelihood of a blow that cannot be undone.
Beyond the camps, miners and merchants organize against predation. Vigilance committees form, exchanging signs and vows to defend the roads and punish road agents. Their watchfulness reroutes traffic and pressures the legion to bolder, riskier moves. Rumors run ahead of truth, and ambushes multiply. Inside this tightening web, Joan considers choices that could aid the besieged settlements without exposing her to immediate reprisal. She must balance urgency against concealment, aware that discovery would be fatal. The book emphasizes the growing contest between spontaneous law and practiced outlawry, where strategy and speed determine who controls the next bend in the trail.
Greed, fear, and jealousy collide as the legion maneuvers toward larger hauls and a decisive strike. Leadership disputes erupt, alliances realign, and suspicions ignite confrontations that thin the ranks. The mountains host a grim pursuit where timing matters more than aim. Jim’s conscience reasserts itself as consequences mount, while Kells’s conflicting impulses harden around possession and power. Joan’s resolve crystallizes into action that shapes how the impending clash will unfold. The narrative quickens, moving from hidden councils to open conflict, with a cache of wealth and the fate of key players converging in a rugged stronghold where neither flight nor surrender comes easily.
The novel concludes with reckoning and transition as frontier justice closes in on outlawry. Without detailing pivotal outcomes, the final chapters resolve the intertwined fates of Joan, Jim, and Kells against the rise of order in the borderlands. Grey underscores themes of redemption, loyalty, and the hard price of survival, suggesting that personal choices, not merely circumstance, define character. The Border Legion ends by reaffirming the West’s shift from violent improvisation to a fragile civic peace. The story’s essential message is clear: in a land of peril and promise, integrity is tested at the edge, and the path back carries its own steep cost.
Historical Context
Set primarily in the early-to-mid 1860s, The Border Legion unfolds in the rugged intermountain West along the shifting line between Idaho Territory (created in 1863) and the soon-to-be-formed Montana Territory (1864). The setting evokes the Salmon River Mountains, Bitterroot Range, and remote mining camps that boomed after nearby gold strikes. Sparse federal authority, difficult terrain, seasonal isolation, and improvised camp law shaped daily life. The novel’s frontier spaces—stage routes, canyon passes, and gold diggings—mirror real places like Bannack and the Alder Gulch district near Virginia City, where populations surged almost overnight. Against the backdrop of the American Civil War, the borderlands became a crucible of rapid migration, volatile economies, and fluid jurisdiction.
The Rocky Mountain gold rushes of 1862–1864 transformed the region. Gold was found on Grasshopper Creek in 1862, spawning Bannack; in May 1863, Bill Fairweather’s party discovered Alder Gulch, precipitating the rise of Virginia City, whose population soared into the thousands within a year. Additional booms at Boise Basin (1862) and earlier camps like Florence and Elk City drew miners, merchants, and gamblers from California and the Midwest. Estimates for Alder Gulch alone exceed $30 million in gold during its first years, at 1860s prices. The Border Legion situates its outlaws and prospectors within this fevered world, where sudden wealth, transient populations, and tenuous institutions fostered both opportunity and predation.
The Montana vigilante movement (1863–1864) arose amid rampant robbery by organized road agents who preyed on freight wagons and stagecoaches connecting Bannack, Virginia City, and outlying camps. In December 1863, settlers formed vigilance committees that soon targeted alleged conspirators, culminating in January 1864 with the hanging of Bannack sheriff Henry Plummer and, days later, the execution of notables such as Boone Helm at Virginia City. Contemporary accounts, including Thomas J. Dimsdale’s The Vigilantes of Montana (1866), recorded roughly two dozen executions. Grey’s depiction of a disciplined outlaw band and equally implacable citizen enforcers directly mirrors this episode: the Border Legion’s operations, clandestine signs, and swift extralegal reprisals echo the contested but consequential transition from bandit rule to communal order.
The American Civil War (1861–1865) profoundly shaped the Far West. With regular troops withdrawn east, territorial law enforcement thinned, leaving mining communities to rely on ad hoc sheriffs, marshals, and miners’ courts. Western gold, shipped through San Francisco or overland to the East, helped stabilize Union finances by underpinning greenbacks and federal borrowing; strikes at Alder Gulch and Boise Basin injected hard currency valued in the tens of millions. Meanwhile, inflation, shortages, and arms leakage to frontier markets heightened volatility. The Border Legion reflects these conditions: distances lengthen response times, stolen gold becomes strategic capital, and veteran drifters, deserters, and fortune-seekers blur the boundary between citizen and outlaw, underscoring how national war amplified local disorder and improvisation.
Territorial reorganization and local governance evolved rapidly. Congress created Idaho Territory on March 4, 1863, with Lewiston as the first capital; it shifted to Boise in 1864. Montana Territory followed on May 26, 1864, initially capitaled at Bannack, moving to Virginia City in 1865. Before formal courts could operate consistently, miners drafted district codes to define claim sizes, water rights, and procedures, electing judges for “miners’ courts” whose verdicts were enforced by the community. The novel’s reliance on impromptu trials, camp ballots, and charismatic figures of authority reflects these institutions, where legality was negotiated case by case, and the threat or use of collective force—sometimes vigilante—substituted for a distant, underfunded territorial state.
Overland transport networks tied the goldfields to markets and created targets for theft. John Bozeman and John Jacobs opened the Bozeman Trail in 1863 to shorten travel to Montana from the Platte, routing emigrants toward Virginia City. Stage and express services multiplied; Ben Holladay extended his Overland Mail routes into Montana by 1864, hauling freight, passengers, and bullion. Protection was uneven until the U.S. Army established forts along the northern plains in 1866. The Border Legion’s heists, ambushes in mountain passes, and predation on shipments mirror the high-stakes vulnerability of bullion transport and the improvisational security practices—armed escorts, secret schedules, decoys—adopted by companies and communities.
Indigenous displacement and conflict formed a critical, often unseen, substrate to the book’s frontier. In Idaho Territory, the Bear River Massacre of January 29, 1863, saw California Volunteers under Colonel Patrick Connor kill more than 250 Northwestern Shoshone near present-day Preston, clearing emigrant corridors at terrible cost. Across the northern Rockies, Shoshone, Bannock, Nez Perce, and Blackfeet homelands were crossed by prospectors and freighters without consent, leading to skirmishes and coercive treaties. While The Border Legion largely centers on miners and outlaws, its landscapes of peril, sudden flight, and contested trails are legible only within this wider history of forced Indigenous dispossession that enabled the very camps and roads powering the gold economy.
As a social and political critique, the novel interrogates the fragility of law amid extractive booms. It exposes how speculative wealth sharpens class divides between wage laborers, claim-holders, and parasites who live by tolls, gambling, or theft. The oscillation between road agents and vigilantes critiques extremes: predation flourishes without institutions, yet communal justice can harden into summary violence and error. By highlighting the precarious position of women, the story underscores the absence of legal protections in male-dominated camps. The Border Legion thus questions the frontier myth of redemptive individualism, suggesting that durable order requires accountable institutions, not merely private arms or charismatic leaders, in a society convulsed by war and gold.
THE BORDER LEGION
1
Joan Randle reined in her horse on the crest of the cedar ridge, and with remorse and dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed before her at the wild and looming mountain range.
"Jim wasn't fooling me," she said. "He meant it. He's going straight for the border... Oh, why did I taunt him![1q]"
It was indeed a wild place, that southern border of Idaho, and that year was to see the ushering in of the wildest time probably ever known in the West. The rush for gold had peopled California with a horde of lawless men of every kind and class. And the vigilantes[1] and then the rich strikes in Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide of humanity. Strange tales of blood and gold drifted into the camps, and prospectors and hunters met with many unknown men.
Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was bitterly regretting it. Joan was twenty years old, tall, strong, dark. She had been born in Missouri, where her father had been well-to-do and prominent, until, like many another man of his day, he had impeded the passage of a bullet. Then Joan had become the protegee of an uncle who had responded to the call of gold; and the latter part of her life had been spent in the wilds.
She had followed Jim's trail for miles out toward the range. And now she dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had believed. He had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone had seen him riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on the way, for it was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used to his idle threats and disgusted with his vacillations. That had been the trouble—Jim was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan he had not exhibited any strength of character. Joan stood beside her horse and looked away toward the dark mountains. She was daring, resourceful, used to horses and trails and taking care of herself; and she did not need anyone to tell her that she had gone far enough. It had been her hope to come up with Jim. Always he had been repentant. But this time was different. She recalled his lean, pale face—so pale that freckles she did not know he had showed through—and his eyes, usually so soft and mild, had glinted like steel. Yes, it had been a bitter, reckless face. What had she said to him? She tried to recall it.
The night before at twilight Joan had waited for him. She had given him precedence over the few other young men of the village, a fact she resentfully believed he did not appreciate. Jim was unsatisfactory in every way except in the way he cared for her. And that also—for he cared too much.
When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night became vivid. She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin. The shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon. She heard the low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the village, and the murmur of the brook. Jim was later than usual. Very likely, as her uncle had hinted, Jim had tarried at the saloon that had lately disrupted the peace of the village. The village was growing, and Joan did not like the change. There were too many strangers, rough, loud-voiced, drinking men. Once it had been a pleasure to go to the village store; now it was an ordeal. Somehow Jim had seemed to be unfavorably influenced by these new conditions. Still, he had never amounted to much. Her resentment, or some feeling she had, was reaching a climax. She got up from her seat. She would not wait any longer for him, and when she did see him it would be to tell him a few blunt facts.
Just then there was a slight rustle behind her. Before she could turn someone seized her in powerful arms. She was bent backward in a bearish embrace, so that she could neither struggle nor cry out. A dark face loomed over hers—came closer. Swift kisses closed her eyes, burned her cheeks, and ended passionately on her lips. They had some strange power over her. Then she was released.
Joan staggered back, frightened, outraged. She was so dazed she did not recognize the man, if indeed she knew him. But a laugh betrayed him. It was Jim.
"You thought I had no nerve," he said. "What do you think of that?"
Suddenly Joan was blindly furious. She could have killed him. She had never given him any right, never made him any promise, never let him believe she cared. And he had dared—! The hot blood boiled in her cheeks. She was furious with him, but intolerably so with herself, because somehow those kisses she had resented gave her unknown pain and shame. They had sent a shock through all her being. She thought she hated him.
"You—you—" she broke out. "Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!"
"Reckon I never had a beginning with you," he replied, bitterly. "It was worth a good deal... I'm not sorry... By Heaven—I've—kissed you!"
He breathed heavily. She could see how pale he had grown in the shadowy moonlight. She sensed a difference in him—a cool, reckless defiance.
"You'll be sorry," she said. "I'll have nothing to do with you any more."
"All right. But I'm not, and I won't be sorry."
She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink. Jim had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he possessed. Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been drinking. There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could not fathom. Had he guessed his kisses would have that power? If he dared again—! She trembled, and it was not only rage. But she would teach him a lesson.
"Joan, I kissed you because I can't be a hangdog any longer," he said. "I love you and I'm no good without you. You must care a little for me. Let's marry... I'll—"
"Never!" she replied, like flint. "You're no good at all."
"But I am," he protested, with passion. "I used to do things. But since—since I've met you I've lost my nerve. I'm crazy for you. You let the other men run after you. Some of them aren't fit to—to—Oh, I'm sick all the time! Now it's longing and then it's jealousy. Give me a chance, Joan."
"Why?" she queried, coldly. "Why should I? You're shiftless. You won't work. When you do find a little gold you squander it. You have nothing but a gun. You can't do anything but shoot."
"Maybe that'll come in handy," he said, lightly.
"Jim Cleve, you haven't it in you even to be BAD," she went on, stingingly.
At that he made a violent gesture. Then he loomed over her. "Joan Handle, do you mean that?" he asked.
"I surely do," she responded. At last she had struck fire from him. The fact was interesting. It lessened her anger.
"Then I'm so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can't even be bad?"
"Yes, you are."
"That's what you think of me—after I've ruined myself for love of you?"
She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a glee she felt in hurting him!
"By God, I'll show you!" he cried, hoarsely.
"What will you do, Jim?" she asked, mockingly.
"I'll shake this camp. I'll rustle for the border. I'll get in with Kells and Gulden... You'll hear of me, Joan Randle!"
These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived desperados, robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had brought tidings of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a slight cold sinking sensation at her heart. But this was only a magnificent threat of Jim's. He could not do such a thing. She would never let him, even if he could. But after the incomprehensible manner of woman, she did not tell him that.
"Bah! You haven't the nerve!" she retorted, with another mocking laugh.
Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a little uncertain: still she did not call him back.
And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by prospectors and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost. What risk she ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians[2] that had of late been frequent visitors in the village. Presently she mounted again and rode down the ridge. She would go a mile or so farther.
Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had only threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could stand, and if there were any strength of character in him he would show it now. Her remorse and dread increased. After all, he was only a boy—only a couple of years older than she was. Under stress of feeling he might go to any extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she had not, she had at least been brutal. But he had dared to kiss her! Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame went over her. And at length Joan marveled to find that out of the affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful dread, there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for Jim Cleve.
She climbed another ridge and halted again. This time she saw a horse and rider down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Jim returning. After all, then, he had only threatened. She felt relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry. She had been right in her conviction.
She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not the horse Jim usually rode. She took the precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman approached closer she discerned that instead of Jim it was Harvey Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle's. Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him. It was a significant thing that at the sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.
"Hello, Joan!" he exclaimed, turning her way. "Reckon you give me a scare. You ain't alone way out here?"
"Yes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you," she replied. "Thought you were Jim."
"Trailin' Jim! What's up?"
"We quarreled. He swore he was going to the devil. Over on the border! I was mad and told him to go.... But I'm sorry now—and have been trying to catch up with him."
"Ahuh!... So that's Jim's trail. I sure was wonderin'. Joan, it turns off a few miles back an' takes the trail for the border. I know. I've been in there."
Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts. His scarred and grizzled face seemed grave and he avoided her gaze.
"You don't believe—Jim'll really go?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Reckon I do, Joan," he replied, after a pause. "Jim is just fool enough. He had been gettrn' recklessler lately. An', Joan, the times ain't provocatin' a young feller to be good. Jim had a bad fight the other night. He about half killed young Bradley. But I reckon you know."
"I've heard nothing," she replied. "Tell me. Why did they fight?"
"Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you."
Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood—another new and strange emotion. She did not like Bradley. He had been persistent and offensive.
"Why didn't Jim tell me?" she queried, half to herself.
"Reckon he wasn't proud of the shape he left Bradley in," replied Roberts, with a laugh. "Come on, Joan, an' make back tracks for home."
Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep within her. Her father in his youth had been an adventurer. She felt the thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a man who loved her.
"I'm going after him," she said.
Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun. "Reckon we might overtake him an' get home before sundown," he said, laconically, as he turned his horse. "We'll make a short cut across here a few miles, an' strike his trail. Can't miss it."
Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind. She had a busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to thank Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made faster time. The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come up with Jim's trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which appeared to be a pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan, because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of seeing Jim off in the distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun. The afternoon had far advanced. Joan began to worry about home. She had been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day that she had left no word as to her intentions. Probably by this time somebody was out looking for her.
The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and patches of pine. Deer crashed out of the thickets and grouse whirred up from under the horses. The warmth of the summer afternoon chilled.
"Reckon we'd better give it up," called Roberts back to her.
"No—no. Go on," replied Joan.
And they urged their horses faster. Finally they reached the summit of the slope. From that height they saw down into a round, shallow valley, which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges. There was water down there. It glinted like red ribbon in the sunlight. Not a living thing was in sight. Joan grew more discouraged. It seemed there was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim that day. His trail led off round to the left and grew difficult to follow. Finally, to make matters worse, Roberts's horse slipped in a rocky wash and lamed himself. He did not want to go on, and, when urged, could hardly walk.
Roberts got off to examine the injury. "Wal, he didn't break his leg," he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury was. "Joan, I reckon there'll be some worryin' back home tonight. For your horse can't carry double an' I can't walk."
Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy of the moment she forgot her own trouble.
"Reckon we'll have to make camp right here," said Roberts, looking around. "Lucky I've a pack on that saddle. I can make you comfortable. But we'd better be careful about a fire an' not have one after dark."
"There's no help for it," replied Joan. "Tomorrow we'll go on after Jim. He can't be far ahead now." She was glad that it was impossible to return home until the next day.
Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. And he was bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan's saddle when suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.
"What's that?"
Joan heard soft, dull thumps on the turf and then the sharp crack of an unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They were just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed in her direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they made dark and sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at Roberts. He was staring with a look of recognition in his eyes. Under his breath he muttered a curse. And although Joan was not certain, she believed that his face had shaded gray.
The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly and powerfully affected her.
"Howdy," greeted one of the men.
And then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen gray.
2
"It ain't you—KELLS[3]?"
Roberts's query was a confirmation of his own recognition. And the other's laugh was an answer, if one were needed.
The three horsemen crossed the wash and again halted, leisurely, as if time was no object. They were all young, under thirty. The two who had not spoken were rough-garbed, coarse-featured, and resembled in general a dozen men Joan saw every day. Kells was of a different stamp. Until he looked at her he reminded her of someone she had known back in Missouri; after he looked at her she was aware, in a curious, sickening way, that no such person as he had ever before seen her. He was pale, gray-eyed, intelligent, amiable. He appeared to be a man who had been a gentleman. But there was something strange, intangible, immense about him. Was that the effect of his presence or of his name? Kells! It was only a word to Joan. But it carried a nameless and terrible suggestion. During the last year many dark tales had gone from camp to camp in Idaho—some too strange, too horrible for credence—and with every rumor the fame of Kells had grown, and also a fearful certainty of the rapid growth of a legion of evil men out on the border. But no one in the village or from any of the camps ever admitted having seen this Kells. Had fear kept them silent? Joan was amazed that Roberts evidently knew this man.
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 to-night."
"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 near-by, 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[4]. He's a gun fighter—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 heerd 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 with which all she had experienced was but insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts's intimation. Why should he be killed[2q]? 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 round 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 camp-fire use; one of the strangers whom 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 red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread, coffee, and venison.
"Here's your supper, Joan," he called, quite loud 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 dam' 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 camp-fire. Joan was hungry. She ate and drank what had been given her, and that helped her to realize reality. And although dread abided with her, she grew curious. Almost she imagined she was 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 these 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 camp-fire. Sparks flew away into the shadows. And on 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 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 round and bump against his leg. And he certainly would 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."
"I'll let you have one," said Kells, walking away from the fire. "It will be cold." He returned with a blanket, which 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 big hand to his mouth, "an' I ain't a-goin' to sleep none."
Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. 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 by 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. And 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 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 were gone. She could no longer open her eyes. They seemed glued shut. And then gradually all sense of the night and the wild, of the drowsy warmth, faded.
When she awoke the air was nipping cold. Her eyes snapped open clear and bright. The tips of the cedars were ruddy in the sunrise. A camp-fire crackled. Blue smoke curled upward. Joan sat up with a rush of memory. Roberts and Kells were bustling round 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 smoothed 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 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. And this frightened Joan. What was going to happen? Roberts went back to the camp-fire. 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 was 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 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; and 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."
