Zane Grey

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?"