The Border Legion

That last hint of desperate fame was the crafty bandit's best trump.

And it won. Cleve swept up a weak and nervous hand to brush the hair

from his damp brow. The keenness, the fire, the aloofness had

departed from him. He looked shaken as if by something that had been

pointed out as his own cowardice.

"Sure, Kells," he said, recklessly. "Let me in the game. ... And--by

God--I'll play--the hand out!" He reached for the pencil and bent

over the book.

"Wait! ... Oh, WAIT!" cried Joan. The passion of that moment, the

consciousness of its fateful portent and her situation, as desperate

as Cleve's, gave her voice a singularly high and piercingly sweet

intensity. She glided from behind the blanket--out of the shadow--

into the glare of the lanterns--to face Kells and Cleve.

Kells gave one astounded glance at her, and then, divining her

purpose, he laughed thrillingly and mockingly, as if the sight of

her was a spur, as if her courage was a thing to admire, to permit,

and to regret.

"Cleve, my wife, Dandy Dale," he said, suave and cool. "Let her

persuade you--one way or another!"

The presence of a woman, however disguised, following her singular

appeal, transformed Cleve. He stiffened erect and the flush died out

of his face, leaving it whiter than ever, and the eyes that had

grown dull quickened and began to burn. Joan felt her cheeks blanch.

She all but fainted under that gaze. But he did not recognize her,

though he was strangely affected.

"Wait!" she cried again, and she held to that high voice, so

different from her natural tone. "I've been listening. I've heard

all that's been said. Don't join this Border Legion. ... You're

young--and still, honest. For God's sake--don't go the way of these

men! Kells will make you a bandit. ... Go home--boy--go home!"

"Who are you--to speak to me of honesty--of home?" Cleve demanded.

"I'm only a--a woman. ... But I can feel how wrong you are. ... Go

back to that girl--who--who drove you to the border. ... She must

repent. In a day you'll be too late. ... Oh, boy, go home! Girls

never know their minds--their hearts. Maybe your girl--loved you! ...

Oh, maybe her heart is breaking now!"

A strong, muscular ripple went over Cleve, ending in a gesture of

fierce protest. Was it pain her words caused, or disgust that such

as she dared mention the girl he had loved? Joan could not tell. She

only knew that Cleve was drawn by her presence, fascinated and

repelled, subtly responding to the spirit of her, doubting what he

heard and believing with his eyes.