The Border Legion

And while Joan was absorbed in thought the sun set, the light

failed, twilight stole into the cabin, and then darkness. All this

hour there had been a continual sound of men's voices in the large

cabin, sometimes low and at other times loud. It was only when Joan

distinctly heard the name Jim Cleve that she was startled out of her

absorption, thrilling and flushing. In her eagerness she nearly fell

as she stepped and gropped through the darkness to the door, and as

she drew aside the blanket her hand shook.

The large room was lighted by a fire and half a dozen lanterns.

Through a faint tinge of blue smoke Joan saw men standing and

sitting and lounging around Kells, who had a seat where the light

fell full upon him. Evidently a lull had intervened in the talk. The

dark faces Joan could see were all turned toward the door

expectantly.

"Bring him in, Bate, and let's look him over," said Kells.

Then Bate Wood appeared, elbowing his way in, and he had his hand on

the arm of a tall, lithe fellow. When they got into the light Joan

quivered as if she had been stabbed. That stranger with Wood was Jim

Cleve--Jim Cleve in frame and feature, yet not the same she knew.

"Cleve, glad to meet you," greeted Kells, extending his hand.

"Thanks. Same to you," replied Cleve, and he met the proffered hand.

His voice was cold and colorless, unfamiliar to Joan. Was this man

really Jim Cleve?

The meeting of Kells and Cleve was significant because of Kells's

interest and the silent attention of the men of his clan. It did not

seem to mean anything to the white-faced, tragic-eyed Cleve. Joan

gazed at him with utter amazement. She remembered a heavily built,

florid Jim Cleve, an overgrown boy with a good-natured, lazy smile

on his full face and sleepy eyes. She all but failed to recognize

him in the man who stood there now, lithe and powerful, with muscles

bulging in his coarse, white shirt. Joan's gaze swept over him, up

and down, shivering at the two heavy guns he packed, till it was

transfixed on his face. The old, or the other, Jim Cleve had been

homely, with too much flesh on his face to show force or fire. This

man seemed beautiful. But it was a beauty of tragedy. He was as

white as Kells, but smoothly, purely white, without shadow or

sunburn. His lips seemed to have set with a bitter, indifferent

laugh. His eyes looked straight out, piercing, intent, haunted, and

as dark as night. Great blue circles lay under them, lending still

further depth and mystery. It was a sad, reckless face that wrung

Joan's very heartstrings. She had come too late to save his

happiness, but she prayed that it was not too late to save his honor

and his soul.