The Border Legion

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!"

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 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.