The Border Legion

Sunset, twilight, and night fell upon the canon. And she began to

feel solitude as something tangible. Bringing saddle and blankets

into the cabin, she made a bed just inside, and, facing the opening

and the stars, she lay down to rest, if not to sleep. The darkness

did not keep her from seeing the prostrate figure of Kells. He lay

there as silent as if he were already dead. She was exhausted, weary

for sleep, and unstrung. In the night her courage fled and she was

frightened at shadows. The murmuring of insects seemed augmented

into a roar; the mourn of wolf and scream of cougar made her start;

the rising wind moaned like a lost spirit. Dark fancies beset her.

Troop on troop of specters moved out of the black night, assembling

there, waiting for Kells to join them. She thought she was riding

homeward over the back trail, sure of her way, remembering every rod

of that rough travel, until she got out of the mountains, only to be

turned back by dead men. Then fancy and dream, and all the haunted

gloom of canon and cabin, seemed slowly to merge into one immense

blackness.

The sun, rimming the east wall, shining into Joan's face, awakened

her. She had slept hours. She felt rested, stronger. Like the night,

something dark had passed away from her. It did not seem strange to

her that she should feel that Kells still lived. She knew it. And

examination proved her right. In him there had been no change except

that he had ceased to bleed. There was just a flickering of life in

him, manifest only in his slow, faint heart-beats.

Joan spent most of that day in sitting beside Kells. The whole day

seemed only an hour. Sometimes she would look down the canon trail,

half expecting to see horsemen riding up. If any of Kells's comrades

happened to come, what could she tell them? They would be as bad as

he, without that one trait which had kept him human for a day. Joan

pondered upon this. It would never do to let them suspect she had

shot Kells. So, carefully cleaning the gun, she reloaded it. If any

men came, she would tell them that Bill had done the shooting.

Kells lingered. Joan began to feel that he would live, though

everything indicated the contrary. Her intelligence told her he

would die, and her feeling said he would not. At times she lifted

his head and got water into his mouth with a spoon. When she did

this he would moan. That night, during the hours she lay awake, she

gathered courage out of the very solitude and loneliness. She had

nothing to fear, unless someone came to the canon. The next day in

no wise differed from the preceding. And then there came the third

day, with no change in Kells till near evening, when she thought he

was returning to consciousness. But she must have been mistaken. For

hours she watched patiently. He might return to consciousness just

before the end, and want to speak, to send a message, to ask a

prayer, to feel a human hand at the last.