The Border Legion

The man called Frenchy, was audacious, persistent, smiling, amorous-

eyed, and rudely gallant. He cared no more for his companions than

if they had not been there. He vied with Pearce in his attention,

and the two of them discomfited the others. The situation might have

been amusing had it not been so terrible. Always the portent was a

shadow behind their interest and amiability and jealousy. Except for

that one abrupt and sinister move of Gulden's--that of a natural man

beyond deceit--there was no word, no look, no act at which Joan

could have been offended. They were joking, sarcastic, ironical, and

sullen in their relation to each other; but to Joan each one

presented what was naturally or what he considered his kindest and

most friendly front. A young and attractive woman had dropped into

the camp of lonely wild men; and in their wild hearts was a rebirth

of egotism, vanity, hunger for notice. They seemed as foolish as a

lot of cock grouse preening themselves and parading before a single

female. Surely in some heart was born real brotherhood for a

helpless girl in peril. Inevitably in some of them would burst a

flame of passion as it had in Kells.

Between this amiable contest for Joan's glances and replies, with

its possibility of latent good to her, and the dark, lurking,

unspoken meaning, such as lay in Gulden's brooding, Joan found

another new and sickening torture.

"Say, Frenchy, you're no lady's man," declared Red Pearce, "an' you,

Bate, you're too old. Move--pass by--sashay!" Pearce, good-

naturedly, but deliberately, pushed the two men back.

"Shore she's Kells's lady, ain't she?" drawled Wood. "Ain't you all

forgettin' thet?"

"Kells is asleep or dead," replied Pearce, and he succeeded in

getting the field to himself.

"Where'd you meet Kells anyway?" he asked Joan, with his red face

bending near hers.

Joan had her part to play. It was difficult, because she divined

Pearce's curiosity held a trap to catch her in a falsehood. He knew--

they all knew she was not Kells's wife. But if she were a prisoner

she seemed a willing and contented one. The query that breathed in

Pearce's presence was how was he to reconcile the fact of her

submission with what he and his comrades had potently felt as her

goodness?

"That doesn't concern anybody," replied Joan.

"Reckon not," said Pearce. Then he leaned nearer with intense face.

"What I want to know--is Gulden right? Did you shoot Kells?"

In the dusk Joan reached back and clasped Kells hand.