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The Border Legion

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Border Legion



Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

THE BORDER LEGION

Zane Grey



1

Joan Randle reined in her horse on the crest of the cedar ridge, and
with remorse and dread beginning to knock at her heart she gazed
before her at the wild and looming mountain range.

"Jim wasn't fooling me," she said. "He meant it. He's going straight
for the border ... Oh, why did I taunt him!"

It was indeed a wild place, that southern border of Idaho, and that
year was to see the ushering in of the wildest time probably ever
known in the West. The rush for gold had peopled California with a
horde of lawless men of every kind and class. And the vigilantes and
then the rich strikes in Idaho had caused a reflux of that dark tide
of humanity. Strange tales of blood and gold drifted into the camps,
and prospectors and hunters met with many unknown men.

Joan had quarreled with Jim Cleve, and she was bitterly regretting
it. Joan was twenty years old, tall, strong, dark. She had been born
in Missouri, where her father had been well-to-do and prominent,
until, like many another man of his day, he had impeded the passage
of a bullet. Then Joan had become the protegee of an uncle who had
responded to the call of gold; and the latter part of her life had
been spent in the wilds.

She had followed Jim's trail for miles out toward the range. And now
she dismounted to see if his tracks were as fresh as she had
believed. He had left the little village camp about sunrise. Someone
had seen him riding away and had told Joan. Then he had tarried on
the way, for it was now midday. Joan pondered. She had become used
to his idle threats and disgusted with his vacillations. That had
been the trouble--Jim was amiable, lovable, but since meeting Joan
he had not exhibited any strength of character. Joan stood beside
her horse and looked away toward the dark mountains. She was daring,
resourceful, used to horses and trails and taking care of herself;
and she did not need anyone to tell her that she had gone far
enough. It had been her hope to come up with Jim. Always he had been
repentant. But this time was different. She recalled his lean, pale
face--so pale that freckles she did not know he had showed through--
and his eyes, usually so soft and mild, had glinted like steel. Yes,
it had been a bitter, reckless face. What had she said to him? She
tried to recall it.

The night before at twilight Joan had waited for him. She had given
him precedence over the few other young men of the village, a fact
she resentfully believed he did not appreciate. Jim was
unsatisfactory in every way except in the way he cared for her. And
that also--for he cared too much.

When Joan thought how Jim loved her, all the details of that night
became vivid. She sat alone under the spruce-trees near the cabin.
The shadows thickened, and then lightened under a rising moon. She
heard the low hum of insects, a distant laugh of some woman of the
village, and the murmur of the brook. Jim was later than usual. Very
likely, as her uncle had hinted, Jim had tarried at the saloon that
had lately disrupted the peace of the village. The village was
growing, and Joan did not like the change. There were too many
strangers, rough, loud-voiced, drinking men. Once it had been a
pleasure to go to the village store; now it was an ordeal. Somehow
Jim had seemed to be unfavorably influenced by these new conditions.
Still, he had never amounted to much. Her resentment, or some
feeling she had, was reaching a climax. She got up from her seat.
She would not wait any longer for him, and when she did see him it
would be to tell him a few blunt facts.

Just then there was a slight rustle behind her. Before she could
turn someone seized her in powerful arms. She was bent backward in a
bearish embrace, so that she could neither struggle nor cry out. A
dark face loomed over hers--came closer. Swift kisses closed her
eyes, burned her cheeks, and ended passionately on her lips. They
had some strange power over her. Then she was released.

Joan staggered back, frightened, outraged. She was so dazed she did
not recognize the man, if indeed she knew him. But a laugh betrayed
him. It was Jim.

"You thought I had no nerve," he said. "What do you think of that?"

Suddenly Joan was blindly furious. She could have killed him. She
had never given him any right, never made him any promise, never let
him believe she cared. And he had dared--! The hot blood boiled in
her cheeks. She was furious with him, but intolerably so with
herself, because somehow those kisses she had resented gave her
unknown pain and shame. They had sent a shock through all her being.
She thought she hated him.

"You--you--" she broke out. "Jim Cleve, that ends you with me!"

"Reckon I never had a beginning with you," he replied, bitterly. "It
was worth a good deal ... I'm not sorry ... By Heaven--I've--kissed
you!"

He breathed heavily. She could see how pale he had grown in the
shadowy moonlight. She sensed a difference in him--a cool, reckless
defiance.

"You'll be sorry," she said. "I'll have nothing to do with you any
more."

"All right. But I'm not, and I won't be sorry."

She wondered whether he had fallen under the influence of drink. Jim
had never cared for liquor, which virtue was about the only one he
possessed. Remembering his kisses, she knew he had not been
drinking. There was a strangeness about him, though, that she could
not fathom. Had he guessed his kisses would have that power? If he
dared again--! She trembled, and it was not only rage. But she would
teach him a lesson.

"Joan, I kissed you because I can't be a hangdog any longer," he
said. "I love you and I'm no good without you. You must care a
little for me. Let's marry ... I'll--"

"Never!" she replied, like flint. "You're no good at all."

"But I am," he protested, with passion. "I used to do things. But
since--since I've met you I've lost my nerve. I'm crazy for you. You
let the other men run after you. Some of them aren't fit to--to--Oh,
I'm sick all the time! Now it's longing and then it's jealousy. Give
me a chance, Joan."

"Why?" she queried, coldly. "Why should I? You're shiftless. You
won't work. When you do find a little gold you squander it. You have
nothing but a gun. You can't do anything but shoot."

"Maybe that'll come in handy," he said, lightly.

"Jim Cleve, you haven't it in you even to be BAD," she went on,
stingingly.

At that he made a violent gesture. Then he loomed over her. "Joan
Handle, do you mean that?" he asked.

"I surely do," she responded. At last she had struck fire from him.
The fact was interesting. It lessened her anger.

"Then I'm so low, so worthless, so spineless that I can't even be
bad?"

"Yes, you are."

"That's what you think of me--after I've ruined myself for love of
you?"

She laughed tauntingly. How strange and hot a glee she felt in
hurting him!

"By God, I'll show you!" he cried, hoarsely.

"What will you do, Jim?" she asked, mockingly.

"I'll shake this camp. I'll rustle for the border. I'll get in with
Kells and Gulden ... You'll hear of me, Joan Randle!"

These were names of strange, unknown, and wild men of a growing and
terrible legion on the border. Out there, somewhere, lived
desperados, robbers, road-agents, murderers. More and more rumor had
brought tidings of them into the once quiet village. Joan felt a
slight cold sinking sensation at her heart. But this was only a
magnificent threat of Jim's. He could not do such a thing. She would
never let him, even if he could. But after the incomprehensible
manner of woman, she did not tell him that.

"Bah! You haven't the nerve!" she retorted, with another mocking
laugh.

Haggard and fierce, he glared down at her a moment, and then without
another word he strode away. Joan was amazed, and a little sick, a
little uncertain: still she did not call him back.

And now at noon of the next day she had tracked him miles toward the
mountains. It was a broad trail he had taken, one used by
prospectors and hunters. There was no danger of her getting lost.
What risk she ran was of meeting some of these border ruffians that
had of late been frequent visitors in the village. Presently she
mounted again and rode down the ridge. She would go a mile or so
farther.

Behind every rock and cedar she expected to find Jim. Surely he had
only threatened her. But she had taunted him in a way no man could
stand, and if there were any strength of character in him he would
show it now. Her remorse and dread increased. After all, he was only
a boy--only a couple of years older than she was. Under stress of
feeling he might go to any extreme. Had she misjudged him? If she
had not, she had at least been brutal. But he had dared to kiss her!
Every time she thought of that a tingling, a confusion, a hot shame
went over her. And at length Joan marveled to find that out of the
affront to her pride, and the quarrel, and the fact of his going and
of her following, and especially out of this increasing remorseful
dread, there had flourished up a strange and reluctant respect for
Jim Cleve.

She climbed another ridge and halted again. This time she saw a
horse and rider down in the green. Her heart leaped. It must be Jim
returning. After all, then, he had only threatened. She felt
relieved and glad, yet vaguely sorry. She had been right in her
conviction.

She had not watched long, however, before she saw that this was not
the horse Jim usually rode. She took the precaution then to hide
behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman
approached closer she discerned that instead of Jim it was Harvey
Roberts, a man of the village and a good friend of her uncle's.
Therefore she rode out of her covert and hailed him. It was a
significant thing that at the sound of her voice Roberts started
suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.

"Hello, Joan!" he exclaimed, turning her way. "Reckon you give me a
scare. You ain't alone way out here?"

"Yes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you," she replied. "Thought you
were Jim."

"Trailin' Jim! What's up?"

"We quarreled. He swore he was going to the devil. Over on the
border! I was mad and told him to go. ... But I'm sorry now--and
have been trying to catch up with him."

"Ahuh! ... So that's Jim's trail. I sure was wonderin'. Joan, it
turns off a few miles back an' takes the trail for the border. I
know. I've been in there."

Joan glanced up sharply at Roberts. His scarred and grizzled face
seemed grave and he avoided her gaze.

"You don't believe--Jim'll really go?" she asked, hurriedly.

"Reckon I do, Joan," he replied, after a pause. "Jim is just fool
enough. He had been gettrn' recklessler lately. An', Joan, the times
ain't provocatin' a young feller to be good. Jim had a bad fight the
other night. He about half killed young Bradley. But I reckon you
know."

"I've heard nothing," she replied. "Tell me. Why did they fight?"

"Report was that Bradley talked oncomplementary about you."

Joan experienced a sweet, warm rush of blood--another new and
strange emotion. She did not like Bradley. He had been persistent
and offensive.

"Why didn't Jim tell me?" she queried, half to herself.

"Reckon he wasn't proud of the shape he left Bradley in," replied
Roberts, with a laugh. "Come on, Joan, an' make back tracks for
home."

Joan was silent a moment while she looked over the undulating green
ridges toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deep
within her. Her father in his youth had been an adventurer. She felt
the thrill and the call of her blood. And she had been unjust to a
man who loved her.

"I'm going after him," she said.

Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the
sun. "Reckon we might overtake him an' get home before sundown," he
said, laconically, as he turned his horse. "We'll make a short cut
across here a few miles, an' strike his trail. Can't miss it."

Then he set off at a brisk trot and Joan fell in behind. She had a
busy mind, and it was a sign of her preoccupation that she forgot to
thank Roberts. Presently they struck into a valley, a narrow
depression between the foothills and the ridges, and here they made
faster time. The valley appeared miles long. Toward the middle of it
Roberts called out to Joan, and, looking down, she saw they had come
up with Jim's trail. Here Roberts put his mount to a canter, and at
that gait they trailed Jim out of the valley and up a slope which
appeared to be a pass into the mountains. Time flew by for Joan,
because she was always peering ahead in the hope and expectation of
seeing Jim off in the distance. But she had no glimpse of him. Now
and then Roberts would glance around at the westering sun. The
afternoon had far advanced. Joan began to worry about home. She had
been so sure of coming up with Jim and returning early in the day
that she had left no word as to her intentions. Probably by this
time somebody was out looking for her.

The country grew rougher, rock-strewn, covered with cedars and
patches of pine. Deer crashed out of the thickets and grouse whirred
up from under the horses. The warmth of the summer afternoon
chilled.

"Reckon we'd better give it up," called Roberts back to her.

"No--no. Go on," replied Joan.

And they urged their horses faster. Finally they reached the summit
of the slope. From that height they saw down into a round, shallow
valley, which led on, like all the deceptive reaches, to the ranges.
There was water down there. It glinted like red ribbon in the
sunlight. Not a living thing was in sight. Joan grew more
discouraged. It seemed there was scarcely any hope of overtaking Jim
that day. His trail led off round to the left and grew difficult to
follow. Finally, to make matters worse, Roberts's horse slipped in a
rocky wash and lamed himself. He did not want to go on, and, when
urged, could hardly walk.

Roberts got off to examine the injury. "Wal, he didn't break his
leg," he said, which was his manner of telling how bad the injury
was. "Joan, I reckon there'll be some worryin' back home tonight.
For your horse can't carry double an' I can't walk."

Joan dismounted. There was water in the wash, and she helped Roberts
bathe the sprained and swelling joint. In the interest and sympathy
of the moment she forgot her own trouble.

"Reckon we'll have to make camp right here," said Roberts, looking
around. "Lucky I've a pack on that saddle. I can make you
comfortable. But we'd better be careful about a fire an' not have
one after dark."

"There's no help for it," replied Joan. "Tomorrow we'll go on after
Jim. He can't be far ahead now." She was glad that it was impossible
to return home until the next day.

Roberts took the pack off his horse, and then the saddle. And he was
bending over in the act of loosening the cinches of Joan's saddle
when suddenly he straightened up with a jerk.

"What's that?"

Joan heard soft, dull thumps on the turf and then the sharp crack of
an unshod hoof upon stone. Wheeling, she saw three horsemen. They
were just across the wash and coming toward her. One rider pointed
in her direction. Silhouetted against the red of the sunset they
made dark and sinister figures. Joan glanced apprehensively at
Roberts. He was staring with a look of recognition in his eyes.
Under his breath he muttered a curse. And although Joan was not
certain, she believed that his face had shaded gray.

The three horsemen halted on the rim of the wash. One of them was
leading a mule that carried a pack and a deer carcass. Joan had seen
many riders apparently just like these, but none had ever so subtly
and powerfully affected her.

"Howdy," greeted one of the men.

And then Joan was positive that the face of Roberts had turned ashen
gray.




2

"It ain't you--KELLS?"

Roberts's query was a confirmation of his own recognition. And the
other's laugh was an answer, if one were needed.

The three horsemen crossed the wash and again halted, leisurely, as
if time was no object. They were all young, under thirty. The two
who had not spoken were rough-garbed, coarse-featured, and resembled
in general a dozen men Joan saw every day. Kells was of a different
stamp. Until he looked at her he reminded her of someone she had
known back in Missouri; after he looked at her she was aware, in a
curious, sickening way, that no such person as he had ever before
seen her. He was pale, gray-eyed, intelligent, amiable. He appeared
to be a man who had been a gentleman. But there was something
strange, intangible, immense about him. Was that the effect of his
presence or of his name? Kells! It was only a word to Joan. But it
carried a nameless and terrible suggestion. During the last year
many dark tales had gone from camp to camp in Idaho--some too
strange, too horrible for credence--and with every rumor the fame of
Kells had grown, and also a fearful certainty of the rapid growth of
a legion of evil men out on the border. But no one in the village or
from any of the camps ever admitted having seen this Kells. Had fear
kept them silent? Joan was amazed that Roberts evidently knew this
man.

Kells dismounted and offered his hand. Roberts took it and shook it
constrainedly.

"Where did we meet last?" asked Kells.

"Reckon it was out of Fresno," replied Roberts, and it was evident
that he tried to hide the effect of a memory.

Then Kells touched his hat to Joan, giving her the fleetest kind of
a glance. "Rather off the track aren't you?" he asked Roberts.

"Reckon we are," replied Roberts, and he began to lose some of his
restraint. His voice sounded clearer and did not halt. "Been
trailin' Miss Randle's favorite hoss. He's lost. An' we got farther
'n we had any idee. Then my hoss went lame. 'Fraid we can't start
home to-night."

"Where are you from?"

"Hoadley. Bill Hoadley's town, back thirty miles or so."

"Well, Roberts, if you've no objection we'll camp here with you,"
continued Kells. "We've got some fresh meat."

With that he addressed a word to his comrades, and they repaired to
a cedar-tree near-by, where they began to unsaddle and unpack.

Then Roberts, bending nearer Joan, as if intent on his own pack,
began to whisper, hoarsely: "That's Jack Kells, the California road-
agent. He's a gun fighter--a hell-bent rattlesnake. When I saw him
last he had a rope round his neck an' was bein' led away to be
hanged. I heerd afterward he was rescued by pals. Joan, if the idee
comes into his head he'll kill me. I don't know what to do. For
God's sake think of somethin'! ... Use your woman's wits! ... We
couldn't be in a wuss fix!"

Joan felt rather unsteady on her feet, so that it was a relief to
sit down. She was cold and sick inwardly, almost stunned. Some great
peril menaced her. Men like Roberts did not talk that way without
cause. She was brave; she was not unused to danger. But this must be
a different kind, compared with which all she had experienced was
but insignificant. She could not grasp Roberts's intimation. Why
should he be killed? They had no gold, no valuables. Even their
horses were nothing to inspire robbery. It must be that there was
peril to Roberts and to her because she was a girl, caught out in
the wilds, easy prey for beasts of evil men. She had heard of such
things happening. Still, she could not believe it possible for her.
Roberts could protect her. Then this amiable, well-spoken Kells, he
was no Western rough--he spoke like an educated man; surely he would
not harm her. So her mind revolved round fears, conjectures,
possibilities; she could not find her wits. She could not think how
to meet the situation, even had she divined what the situation was
to be.

While she sat there in the shade of a cedar the men busied
themselves with camp duties. None of them appeared to pay any
attention to Joan. They talked while they worked, as any other group
of campers might have talked, and jested and laughed. Kells made a
fire, and carried water, then broke cedar boughs for later camp-fire
use; one of the strangers whom they called Bill hobbled the horses;
the other unrolled the pack, spread a tarpaulin, and emptied the
greasy sacks; Roberts made biscuit dough for the oven.

The sun sank red and a ruddy twilight fell. It soon passed. Darkness
had about set in when Roberts came over to Joan, carrying bread,
coffee, and venison.

"Here's your supper, Joan," he called, quite loud and cheerily, and
then he whispered: "Mebbe it ain't so bad. They-all seem friendly.
But I'm scared, Joan. If you jest wasn't so dam' handsome, or if
only he hadn't seen you!"

"Can't we slip off in the dark?" she whispered in return.

"We might try. But it'd be no use if they mean bad. I can't make up
my mind yet what's comin' off. It's all right for you to pretend
you're bashful. But don't lose your nerve."

Then he returned to the camp-fire. Joan was hungry. She ate and
drank what had been given her, and that helped her to realize
reality. And although dread abided with her, she grew curious.
Almost she imagined she was fascinated by her predicament. She had
always been an emotional girl of strong will and self-restraint. She
had always longed for she knew not what--perhaps freedom. Certain
places had haunted her. She had felt that something should have
happened to her there. Yet nothing ever had happened. Certain books
had obsessed her, even when a child, and often to her mother's
dismay; for these books had been of wild places and life on the sea,
adventure, and bloodshed. It had always been said of her that she
should have been a boy.

Night settled down black. A pale, narrow cloud, marked by a train of
stars, extended across the dense blue sky. The wind moaned in the
cedars and roared in the replenished camp-fire. Sparks flew away
into the shadows. And on the puffs of smoke that blew toward her
came the sweet, pungent odor of burning cedar. Coyotes barked off
under the brush, and from away on the ridge drifted the dismal
defiance of a wolf.

Camp-life was no new thing to Joan. She had crossed the plains in a
wagon-train, that more than once had known the long-drawn yell of
hostile Indians. She had prospected and hunted in the mountains with
her uncle, weeks at a time. But never before this night had the
wildness, the loneliness, been so vivid to her.

Roberts was on his knees, scouring his oven with wet sand. His big,
shaggy head nodded in the firelight. He seemed pondering and thick
and slow. There was a burden upon him. The man Bill and his
companion lay back against stones and conversed low. Kells stood up
in the light of the blaze. He had a pipe at which he took long pulls
and then sent up clouds of smoke. There was nothing imposing in his
build or striking in his face, at that distance; but it took no
second look to see here was a man remarkably out of the ordinary.
Some kind of power and intensity emanated from him. From time to
time he appeared to glance in Joan's direction; still, she could not
be sure, for his eyes were but shadows. He had cast aside his coat.
He wore a vest open all the way, and a checked soft shirt, with a
black tie hanging untidily. A broad belt swung below his hip and in
the holster was a heavy gun. That was a strange place to carry a
gun, Joan thought. It looked awkward to her. When he walked it might
swing round and bump against his leg. And he certainly would have to
put it some other place when he rode.

"Say, have you got a blanket for that girl?" asked Kells, removing
his pipe from his lips to address Roberts.

"I got saddle-blankets," responded Roberts. "You see, we didn't
expect to be caught out."

"I'll let you have one," said Kells, walking away from the fire. "It
will be cold." He returned with a blanket, which he threw to
Roberts.

"Much obliged," muttered Roberts.

"I'll bunk by the fire," went on the other, and with that he sat
down and appeared to become absorbed in thought.

Roberts brought the borrowed blanket and several saddle-blankets
over to where Joan was, and laying them down he began to kick and
scrape stones and brush aside.

"Pretty rocky place, this here is," he said. "Reckon you'll sleep
some, though."

Then he began arranging the blankets into a bed. Presently Joan felt
a tug at her riding-skirt. She looked down.

"I'll be right by you," he whispered, with his big hand to his
mouth, "an' I ain't a-goin' to sleep none."

Whereupon he returned to the camp-fire. Presently Joan, not because
she was tired or sleepy, but because she wanted to act naturally,
lay down on the bed and pulled a blanket up over her. There was no
more talking among the men. Once she heard the jingle of spurs and
the rustle of cedar brush. By and by Roberts came back to her,
dragging his saddle, and lay down near her. Joan raised up a little
to see Kells motionless and absorbed by the fire. He had a strained
and tense position. She sank back softly and looked up at the cold
bright stars. What was going to happen to her? Something terrible!
The very night shadows, the silence, the presence of strange men,
all told her. And a shudder that was a thrill ran over and over her.

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