The Border Legion

It was about time of sunset, warm and still in the canon, with rosy

lights fading upon the peaks. The men were all busy with one thing

and another. Strange it was to see that Gulden, who Joan thought

might be a shirker, did twice the work of any man, especially the

heavy work. He seemed to enjoy carrying a log that would have

overweighted two ordinary men. He was so huge, so active, so

powerful that it was fascinating to watch him. They built the camp-

fire for the night uncomfortably near Joan's position; however,

remembering how cold the air would become later, she made no

objection. Twilight set in and the men, through for the day,

gathered near the fire.

Then Joan was not long in discovering that the situation had begun

to impinge upon the feelings of each of these men. They looked at

her differently. Some of them invented pretexts to approach her, to

ask something, to offer service--anything to get near her. A

personal and individual note had been injected into the attitude of

each. Intuitively Joan guessed that Gulden's arising to follow her

had turned their eyes inward. Gulden remained silent and inactive at

the edge of the camp-fire circle of light, which flickered fitfully

around him, making him seem a huge, gloomy ape of a man. So far as

Joan could tell, Gulden never cast his eyes in her direction. That

was a difference which left cause for reflection. Had that hulk of

brawn and bone begun to think? Bate Wood's overtures to Joan were

rough, but inexplicable to her because she dared not wholly trust

him.

"An' shore, miss," he had concluded, in a hoarse whisper, "we-all

know you ain't Kells's wife. Thet bandit wouldn't marry no woman.

He's a woman-hater. He was famous fer thet over in California. He's

run off with you--kidnapped you, thet's shore. ... An' Gulden swears

he shot his own men an' was in turn shot by you. Thet bullet-hole in

his back was full of powder. There's liable to be a muss-up any

time. ... Shore, miss, you'd better sneak off with me tonight when

they're all asleep. I'll git grub an' hosses, an' take you off to

some prospector's camp. Then you can git home."

Joan only shook her head. Even if she could have felt trust in

Wood--and she was of half a mind to believe him--it was too late.

Whatever befell her mattered little if in suffering it she could

save Jim Cleve from the ruin she had wrought.

Since this wild experience of Joan's had begun she had been sick so

many times with raw and naked emotions hitherto unknown to her, that

she believed she could not feel another new fear or torture. But

these strange sensations grew by what they had been fed upon.