The Border Legion

On the start of the journey Joan was instructed to ride before Kells

and Pearce, who supported the leader in his saddle. The pack-drivers

and Bate Wood and Frenchy rode ahead; Gulden held to the rear. And

this order was preserved till noon, when the cavalcade halted for a

rest in a shady, grassy, and well-watered nook. Kells was haggard,

and his brow wet with clammy dew, and lined with pain. Yet he was

cheerful and patient. Still he hurried the men through their tasks.

In an hour the afternoon travel was begun. The canon and its

surroundings grew more rugged and of larger dimensions. Yet the

trail appeared to get broader and better all the time. Joan noticed

intersecting trails, running down from side canons and gulches. The

descent was gradual, and scarcely evident in any way except in the

running water and warmer air.

Kells, tired before the middle of the afternoon, and he would have

fallen from his saddle but for the support of his fellows. One by

one they held him up. And it was not easy work to ride alongside,

holding him up. Joan observed that Gulden did not offer his

services. He seemed a part of this gang, yet not of it. Joan never

lost a feeling of his presence behind her, and from time to time,

when he rode closer, the feeling grew stronger. Toward the close of

that afternoon she became aware of Gulden's strange attention. And

when a halt was made for camp she dreaded something nameless.

This halt occurred early, before sunset, and had been necessitated

by the fact that Kells was fainting. They laid him out on blankets,

with his head in his saddle. Joan tended him, and he recovered

somewhat, though he lacked the usual keenness.

It was a busy hour with saddles, packs, horses, with wood to cut and

fire to build and meal to cook. Kells drank thirstily, but refused

food.

"Joan," he whispered, at an opportune moment, "I'm only tired--dead

for sleep. You stay beside me. Wake me quick--if you want to!"

He closed his eyes wearily, without explaining, and soon slumbered.

Joan did not choose to allow these men to see that she feared them

or distrusted them or disliked them. She ate with them beside the

fire. And this was their first opportunity to be close to her. The

fact had an immediate and singular influence. Joan had no vanity,

though she knew she was handsome. She forced herself to be pleasant,

agreeable, even sweet. Their response was instant and growing. At

first they were bold, then familiar and coarse. For years she had

been used to rough men of the camps. These however, were different,

and their jokes and suggestions had no effect because they were

beyond her. And when this became manifest to them that aspect of

their relation to her changed. She grasped the fact intuitively, and

then she verified it by proof. Her heart beat strong and high. If

she could hide her hate, her fear, her abhorrence, she could

influence these wild men. But it all depended upon her charm, her

strangeness, her femininity. Insensibly they had been influenced,

and it proved that in the worst of men there yet survived some good.

Gulden alone presented a contrast and a problem. He appeared aware

of her presence while he sat there eating like a wolf, but it was as

if she were only an object. The man watched as might have an animal.