The Border Legion

"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.