Joan returned to consciousness with a sense of vague and unlocalized pain which she thought was that old, familiar pang of grief. But once fully awakened, as if by a sharp twinge, she became aware that the pain was some kind of muscular throb in her shoulder. The instant she was fully sure of this the strange feeling ceased. Then she lay wide-eyed in the darkness, waiting and wondering.

Suddenly the slight sharp twing was repeated. It seemed to come from outside her flesh. She shivered a little, thinking it might be a centipede. When she reached for her shoulder her hand came in contact with a slender stick that had been thrust through a crack between the boards. Jim was trying to rouse her. This had been his method on several occasions when she had fallen asleep after waiting long for him.

Joan got up to the window, dizzy and sick with the resurging memory of Jim's return to Kells with that gold-belt.

Jim rose out of the shadow and felt for her, clasped her close. Joan had none of the old thrill; her hands slid loosely round his; and every second the weight inwardly grew heavier.

“Joan! I had a time waking you,” whispered Jim, and then he kissed her. “Why, you're as cold as ice.”

“Jim—I—I must have fainted,” she replied.

“What for?” “I was peeping into Kells's cabin, when you—you—”

“Poor kid!” he interrupted, tenderly. “You've had so much to bear!... Joan, I fooled Kells. Oh, I was slick!... He ordered me out on a job—to kill a miner! Fancy that! And what do you think? I know Creede well. He's a good fellow. I traded my big nugget for his gold-belt!”

“You TRADED—you—didn't—kill him!” faltered Joan.

“Hear the child talk!” exclaimed Cleve, with a low laugh.

Joan suddenly clung to him with all her might, quivering in a silent joy. It had not occurred to Jim what she might have thought.

“Listen,” he went on. “I traded my nugget. It was worth a great deal more than Creede's gold-belt. He knew this. He didn't want to trade. But I coaxed him. I persuaded him to leave camp—to walk out on the road to Bannack. To meet the stage somewhere and go on to Bannack, and stay a few days. He sure was curious. But I kept my secret.... Then I came back here, gave the belt to Kells, told him I had followed Creede in the dark, had killed him and slid him into a deep hole in the creek.... Kells and Pearce—none of them paid any attention to my story. I had the gold-belt. That was enough. Gold talks—fills the ears of these bandits.... I have my share of Creede's gold-dust in my pocket. Isn't that funny? Alas for my—YOUR big nugget! But we've got to play the game. Besides, I've sacks and cans of gold hidden away. Joan, what'll we do with it all? You're my wife now. And, oh! If we can only get away with it you'll be rich!”

Joan could not share his happiness any more than she could understand his spirit. She remembered.

“Jim—dear—did Kells tell you what your—next job was to be?” she whispered, haltingly.

Cleve swore under his breath, but loud enough to make Joan swiftly put her hand over his lips and caution him.

“Joan, did you hear that about Gulden?” he asked.

“Oh yes.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you. Yes, I've got my second job. And this one I can't shirk or twist around.”

Joan held to him convulsively. She could scarcely speak.

“Girl, don't lose your nerve!” he said, sternly. “When you married me you made me a man. I'll play my end of the game. Don't fear for me. You plan when we can risk escape. I'll obey you to the word.”

“But Jim—oh, Jim!” she moaned. “You're as wild as these bandits. You can't see your danger.... That terrible Gulden!... You don't mean to meet him—fight him?... Say you won't!”

“Joan, I'll meet him—and I'll KILL him,” whispered Jim, with a piercing intensity. “You never knew I was swift with a gun. Well, I didn't, either, till I struck the border. I know now. Kells is the only man I've seen who can throw a gun quicker than I. Gulden is a big bull. He's slow. I'll get into a card-game with him—I'll quarrel over gold—I'll smash him as I did once before—and this time I won't shoot off his ear. I've my nerve now. Kells swore he'd do anything for me if I stand by him now. I will. You never can tell. Kells is losing his grip. And my standing by him may save you.”

Joan drew a deep breath. Jim Cleve had indeed come into manhood. She crushed down her womanish fears and rose dauntless to the occasion. She would never weaken him by a lack of confidence.

“Jim, Kells's plot draws on to a fatal close,” she said, earnestly. “I feel it. He's doomed. He doesn't realize that yet. He hopes and plots on. When he falls, then he'll be great—terrible. We must get away before that comes. What you said about Creede has given me an idea. Suppose we plan to slip out some night soon, and stop the stage next day on its way to Bannack?”

“I've thought of that. But we must have horses.”

“Let's go afoot. We'd be safer. There'd not be so much to plan.”

“But if we go on foot we must pack guns and grub—and there's my gold-dust. Fifty pounds or more! It's yours, Joan.... You'll need it all. You love pretty clothes and things. And now I'll get them for you or—or die.”

“Hush! That's foolish talk, with our very lives at stake. Let me plan some more. Oh, I think so hard!... And, Jim, there's another thing. Red Pearce was more than suspicious about your absence from the cabin at certain hours. What he hinted to Kells about a woman in the case! I'm afraid he suspects or knows.”

“He had me cold, too,” replied Cleve, thoughtfully. “But he swore he knew nothing.”

“Jim, trust a woman's instinct. Pearce lied. That gun at his side made him a liar. He knew you'd kill him if he betrayed himself by a word. Oh, look out for him!”

Cleve did not reply. It struck Joan that he was not listening, at least to her. His head was turned, rigid and alert. He had his ear to the soft wind. Suddenly Joan heard a faint rustle-then another. They appeared to come from the corner of the cabin. Silently Cleve sank down into the shadow and vanished. Low, stealthy footsteps followed, but Joan was not sure whether or not Cleve made them. They did not seem to come from the direction he usually took. Besides, when he was careful he never made the slightest noise. Joan strained her ears, only to catch the faint sounds of the night. She lay back upon her bed, worried and anxious again, and soon the dread returned. There were to be no waking or sleeping hours free from this portent of calamity.

Next morning Joan awaited Kells, as was her custom, but he did not appear. This was the third time in a week that he had forgotten or avoided her or had been prevented from seeing her. Joan was glad, yet the fact was not reassuring. The issue for Kells was growing from trouble to disaster.

Early in the afternoon she heard Kells returning from camp. He had men with him. They conversed in low, earnest tones. Joan was about to spy up on them when Kells's step approached her door. He rapped and spoke:

“Put on Dandy Dale's suit and mask, and come out here,” he said.

The tone of his voice as much as the content of his words startled Joan so that she did not at once reply.

“Do you hear?” he called, sharply.

“Yes,” replied Joan.

Then he went back to his men, and the low, earnest conversation was renewed.

Reluctantly Joan took down Dandy Dale's things from the pegs, and with a recurring shame she divested herself of part of her clothes and donned the suit and boots and mask and gun. Her spirit rose, however, at the thought that this would be a disguise calculated to aid her in the escape with Cleve. But why had Kells ordered the change? Was he in danger and did he mean to flee from Alder Creek? Joan found the speculation a relief from that haunting, persistent thought of Jim Cleve and Gulden. She was eager to learn, still she hesitated at the door. It was just as hard as ever to face those men.

But it must be, so with a wrench she stepped out boldly.

Kells looked worn and gray. He had not slept. But his face did not wear the shade she had come to associate with his gambling and drinking. Six other men were present, and Joan noted coats and gloves and weapons and spurs. Kells turned to address her. His face lighted fleetingly.

“I want you to be ready to ride any minute,” he said.

“Why?” asked Joan.

“We may HAVE to, that's all,” he replied.

His men, usually so keen when they had a chance to ogle Joan, now scarcely gave her a glance. They were a dark, grim group, with hard eyes and tight lips. Handy Oliver was speaking.

“I tell you, Gulden swore he seen Creede—on the road—in the lamplight—last night AFTER Jim Cleve got here.”

“Gulden must have been mistaken,” declared Kells, impatiently.

“He ain't the kind to make mistakes,” replied Oliver.

“Gul's seen Creede's ghost, thet's what,” suggested Blicky, uneasily. “I've seen a few in my time.”

Some of the bandits nodded gloomily.

“Aw!” burst out Red Pearce. “Gulden never seen a ghost in his life. If he seen Creede he's seen him ALIVE!”

“Shore you're right, Red,” agreed Jesse Smith.

“But, men—Cleve brought in Creede's belt—and we've divided the gold,” said Kells. “You all know Creede would have to be dead before that belt could be unbuckled from him. There's a mistake.”

“Boss, it's my idee thet Gul is only makin' more trouble,” put in Bate Wood. “I seen him less than an hour ago. I was the first one Gul talked to. An' he knew Jim Cleve did for Creede. How'd he know? Thet was supposed to be a secret. What's more, Gul told me Cleve was on the job to kill him. How'd he ever find thet out?... Sure as God made little apples Cleve never told him!”

Kells's face grew livid and his whole body vibrated. “Maybe one of Gulden's gang was outside, listening when we planned Cleve's job,” he suggested. But his look belied his hope.

“Naw! There's a nigger in the wood-pile, you can gamble on thet,” blurted out the sixth bandit, a lean faced, bold-eye, blond-mustached fellow whose name Joan had never heard.

“I won't believe it,” replied Kells, doggedly. “And you, Budd, you're accusing somebody present of treachery—or else Cleve. He's the only one not here who knew.”

“Wal, I always said thet youngster was slick,” replied Budd.

“Will you accuse him to his face?”

“I shore will. Glad of the chance.”

“Then you're drunk or just a fool.”

“Thet so?”

“Yes, that's so,” flashed Kells. “You don't know Cleve. He'll kill you. He's lightning with a gun. Do you suppose I'd set him on Gulden's trail if I wasn't sure? Why I wouldn't care to—”

“Here comes Cleve,” interrupted Pearce, sharply.

Rapid footsteps sounded without. Then Joan saw Jim Cleve darken the doorway. He looked keen and bold. Upon sight of Joan in her changed attire he gave a slight start.

“Budd, here's Cleve,” called out Red Pearce, mockingly. “Now, say it to his face!”

In the silence that ensued Pearce's spirit dominated the moment with its cunning, hate, and violence. But Kells savagely leaped in front of the men, still master of the situation.

“Red, what's got into you?” he hissed. “You're cross-grained lately. You're sore. Any more of this and I'll swear you're a disorganizer.... Now, Budd, you keep your mouth shut. And you, Cleve, you pay no heed to Budd if he does gab.... We're in bad and all the men have chips on their shoulders. We've got to stop fighting among ourselves.”

“Wal, boss, there's a power of sense in a good example,” dryly remarked Bate Wood. His remark calmed Kells and eased the situation.

“Jim, did you meet Gulden?” queried Kells, eagerly.

“Can't find him anywhere,” replied Cleve. “I've loafed in the saloons and gambling-hells where he hangs out. But he didn't show up. He's in camp. I know that for a fact. He's laying low for some reason.”

“Gulden's been tipped off, Jim,” said Kells, earnestly. “He told Bate Wood you were out to kill him.”

“I'm glad. It wasn't a fair hand you were going to deal him,” responded Cleve. “But who gave my job away? Someone in this gang wants me done for—more than Gulden.”

Cleve's flashing gaze swept over the motionless men and fixed hardest upon Red Pearce. Pearce gave back hard look for hard look.

“Gulden told Oliver more,” continued Kells, and he pulled Cleve around to face him. “Gulden swore he saw Creede alive last night.... LATE LAST NIGHT!”

“That's funny,” replied Cleve, without the flicker of an eyelash.

“It's not funny. But it's queer. Gulden hasn't the moral sense to lie. Bate says he wants to make trouble between you and me. I doubt that. I don't believe Gulden could see a ghost, either. He's simply mistaken some miner for Creede.”

“He sure has, unless Creede came back to life. I'm not sitting on his chest now, holding him down.”

Kells drew back, manifestly convinced and relieved. This action seemed to be a magnet for Pearce. He detached himself from the group, and, approaching Kells, tapped him significantly on the shoulder; and whether by design or accident the fact was that he took a position where Kells was between him and Cleve.

“Jack, you're being double-crossed here—an' by more 'n one,” he said, deliberately. “But if you want me to talk you've got to guarantee no gun-play.”

“Speak up, Red,” replied Kells, with a glinting eye. “I swear there won't be a gun pulled.”

The other men shifted from one foot to another and there were deep-drawn breaths. Jim Cleve alone seemed quiet and cool. But his eyes were ablaze.

“Fust off an' for instance here's one who's double-crossin' you,” said Pearce, in slow, tantalizing speech, as if he wore out this suspense to torture Kells. And without ever glancing at Joan he jerked a thumb, in significant gesture, at her.

Joan leaned back against the wall, trembling and cold all over. She read Pearce's mind. He knew her secret and meant to betray her and Jim. He hated Kells and wanted to torture him. If only she could think quickly and speak! But she seemed dumb and powerless.

“Pearce, what do you mean?” demanded Kells.

“The girl's double-crossin' you,” replied Pearce. With the uttered words he grew pale and agitated.

Suddenly Kells appeared to become aware of Joan's presence and that the implication was directed toward her. Then, many and remarkable as had been the changes Joan had seen come over him, now occurred one wholly greater. It had all his old amiability, his cool, easy manner, veiling a deep and hidden ruthlessness, terrible in contrast.

“Red, I thought our talk concerned men and gold and—things,” he said, with a cool, slow softness that had a sting, “but since you've nerve enough or are crazy enough to speak of—her—why, explain your meaning.”

Pearce's jaw worked so that he could scarcely talk. He had gone too far—realized it too late.

“She meets a man—back there—at her window,” he panted. “They whisper in the dark for hours. I've watched an' heard them. An' I'd told you before, but I wanted to make sure who he was.... I know him now!... An' remember I seen him climb in an' out—”

Kells's whole frame leaped. His gun was a flash of blue and red and white all together. Pearce swayed upright, like a tree chopped at the roots, and then fell, face up, eyes set—dead. The bandit leader stood over him with the smoking gun.

“My Gawd, Jack!” gasped Handy Oliver. “You swore no one would pull a gun—an' here you've killed him yourself!... YOU'VE DOUBLE-CROSSED YOURSELF! An' if I die for it I've got to tell you Red wasn't lyin' then!”

Kells's radiance fled, leaving him ghastly. He stared at Oliver.

“You've double-crossed yourself an' your pards,” went on Oliver, pathetically. “What's your word amount to? Do you expect the gang to stand for this?... There lays Red Pearce dead. An' for what? Jest once—relyin' on your oath—he speaks out what might have showed you. An' you kill him!... If I knowed what he knowed I'd tell you now with thet gun in your hand! But I don't know. Only I know he wasn't lyin'.... Ask the girl!... An' as for me, I reckon I'm through with you an' your Legion. You're done, Kells—your head's gone—you've broke over thet slip of a woman!”

Oliver spoke with a rude and impressive dignity. When he ended he strode out into the sunlight.

Kells was shaken by this forceful speech, yet he was not in any sense a broken man. “Joan—you heard Pearce,” said he, passionately. “He lied about you. I had to kill him. He hinted—Oh, the low-lived dog! He could not know a good woman. He lied—and there he is—dead! I wouldn't fetch him back for a hundred Legions!”

“But it—it wasn't—all—a lie,” said Joan, and her words came haltingly because a force stronger than her cunning made her speak. She had reached a point where she could not deceive Kells to save her life.

“WHAT!” he thundered.

“Pearce told the truth—except that no one ever climbed in my window. That's false. No one could climb in. It's too small.... But I did whisper—to someone.”

Kells had to moisten his lips to speak. “Who?”

“I'll never tell you.”

“Who?... I'll kill him!”

“No—no. I won't tell. I won't let you kill another man on my account.”

“I'll choke it out of you.”

“You can't. There's no use to threaten me, or hurt me, either.”

Kells seemed dazed. “Whisper! For hours! In the dark!... But, Joan, what for? Why such a risk?”

Joan shook her head.

“Were you just unhappy—lonesome? Did some young miner happen to see you there in daylight—then come at night? Wasn't it only accident? Tell me.”

“I won't—and I won't because I don't want you to spill more blood.”

“For my sake,” he queried, with the old, mocking tone. Then he grew dark with blood in his face, fierce with action of hands and body as he bent nearer her. “Maybe you like him too well to see him shot?... Did you—whisper often to this stranger?”

Joan felt herself weakening. Kells was so powerful in spirit and passion that she seemed unable to fight him. She strove to withhold her reply, but it burst forth, involuntarily.

“Yes—often.”

That roused more than anger and passion. Jealousy flamed from him and it transformed him into a devil.

“You held hands out of that window—and kissed—in the dark?” he cried, with working lips.

Joan had thought of this so fearfully and intensely—she had battled so to fortify herself to keep it secret—that he had divined it, had read her mind. She could not control herself. The murder of Pearce had almost overwhelmed her. She had not the strength to bite her tongue. Suggestion alone would have drawn her then—and Kells's passionate force was hypnotic.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He appeared to control a developing paroxysm of rage.

“That settles you,” he declared darkly. “But I'll do one more decent thing by you. I'll marry you.” Then he wheeled to his men. “Blicky, there's a parson down in camp. Go on the run. Fetch him back if you have to push him with a gun.”

Blicky darted through the door and his footsteps thudded out of hearing.

“You can't force me to marry you,” said Joan. “I—I won't open my lips.”

“That's your affair. I've no mind to coax you,” he replied, bitterly. “But if you don't I'll try Gulden's way with a woman.... You remember. Gulden's way! A cave and a rope!”

Joan's legs gave out under her and she sank upon a pile of blankets. Then beyond Kells she saw Jim Cleve. With all that was left of her spirit she flashed him a warning—a meaning—a prayer not to do the deed she divined was his deadly intent. He caught it and obeyed. And he flashed back a glance which meant that, desperate as her case was, it could never be what Kells threatened.

“Men, see me through this,” said Kells to the silent group. “Then any deal you want—I'm on. Stay here or—sack the camp! Hold up the stage express with gold for Bannack! Anything for a big stake! Then the trail and the border.”

He began pacing the floor. Budd and Smith strolled outside. Bate Wood fumbled in his pockets for pipe and tobacco. Cleve sat down at the table and leaned on his hands. No one took notice of the dead Pearce. Here was somber and terrible sign of the wildness of the border clan—that Kells could send out for a parson to marry him to a woman he hopelessly loved, there in the presence of murder and death, with Pearce's distorted face upturned in stark and ghastly significance.

It might have been a quarter of an hour, though to Joan it seemed an endless time, until footsteps and voices outside announced the return of Blicky.

He held by the arm a slight man whom he was urging along with no gentle force. This stranger's face presented as great a contrast to Blicky's as could have been imagined. His apparel proclaimed his calling. There were consternation and bewilderment in his expression, but very little fear.

“He was preachin' down there in a tent,” said Blicky, “an I jest waltzed him up without explainin'.”

“Sir, I want to be married at once,” declared Kells, peremptorily.

“Certainly. I'm at your service,” replied the preacher. “But I deplore the—the manner in which I've been approached.”

“You'll excuse haste,” rejoined the bandit. “I'll pay you well.” Kells threw a small buckskin sack of gold-dust upon the table, and then he turned to Joan. “Come, Joan,” he said, in the tone that brooked neither resistance nor delay.

It was at that moment that the preacher first noticed Joan. Was her costume accountable for his start? Joan had remembered his voice and she wondered if he would remember hers. Certainly Jim had called her Joan more than once on the night of the marriage. The preacher's eyes grew keener. He glanced from Joan to Kells, and then at the other men, who had come in. Jim Cleve stood behind Jesse Smith's broad person, and evidently the preacher did not see him. That curious gaze, however, next discovered the dead man on the floor. Then to the curiosity and anxiety upon the preacher's face was added horror.

“A minister of God is needed here, but not in the capacity you name,” he said. “I'll perform no marriage ceremony in the presence of—murder.”

“Mr. Preacher, you'll marry me quick or you'll go along with him,” replied Kells, deliberately.

“I cannot be forced.” The preacher still maintained some dignity, but he had grown pale.

“I can force you. Get ready now!... Joan, come here!”

Kells spoke sternly, yet something of the old, self-mocking spirit was in his tone. His intelligence was deriding the flesh and blood of him, the beast, the fool. It spoke that he would have his way and that the choice was fatal for him.

Joan shook her head. In one stride Kells reached her and swung her spinning before him. The physical violence acted strangely upon Joan—roused her rage.

“I wouldn't marry you to save my life—even if I could!” she burst out.

At her declaration the preacher gave a start that must have been suspicion or confirmation, or both. He bent low to peer into the face of the dead Pearce. When he arose he was shaking his head. Evidently he had decided that Pearce was not the man to whom he had married Joan.

“Please remove your mask,” he said to Joan.

She did so, swiftly, without a tremor. The preacher peered into her face again, as he had upon the night he had married her to Jim. He faced Kells again.

“I am beyond your threats,” he said, now with calmness. “I can't marry you to a woman who already has a husband.... But I don't see that husband here.”

“You don't see that husband here!” echoed the bewildered Kells. He stared with open mouth. “Say, have you got a screw loose?”

The preacher, in his swift glance, had apparently not observed the half-hidden Cleve. Certainly it appeared now that he would have no attention for any other than Kells. The bandit was a study. His astonishment was terrific and held him like a chain. Suddenly he lurched.

“What did you say?” he roared, his face flaming.

“I can't marry you to a woman who already has a husband.”

Swift as light the red flashed out of Kells's face. “Did you ever see her before?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied the preacher.

“Where and when?”

“Here—at the back of this cabin—a few nights ago.”

It hurt Joan to look at Kells now, yet he seemed wonderful to behold. She felt as guilty as if she had really been false to him. Her heart labored high in her breast. This was the climax—the moment of catastrophe. Another word and Jim Cleve would be facing Kells. The blood pressure in Joan's throat almost strangled her.

“At the back of this cabin!... At her window?”

“Yes.”

“What were you there for?”

“In my capacity as minister. I was summoned to marry her.”

“To marry her?” gasped Kells.

“Yes. She is Joan Randle, from Hoadley, Idaho. She is over eighteen. I understood she was detained here against her will. She loved an honest young miner of the camp. He brought me up here one night. And I married them.”

“YOU—MARRIED—THEM!”

“Yes.”

Kells was slow in assimilating the truth and his action corresponded with his mind. Slowly his hand moved toward his gun. He drew it, threw it aloft. And then all the terrible evil in the man flamed forth. But as he deliberately drew down on the preacher Blicky leaped forward and knocked up the gun. Flash and report followed; the discharge went into the roof. Blicky grasped Kells's arm and threw his weight upon it to keep it down.

“I fetched thet parson here,” he yelled, “an you ain't a-goin' to kill him!... Help, Jesse!... He's crazy! He'll do it!”

Jesse Smith ran to Blicky's aid and tore the gun out of Kells's hand. Jim Cleve grasped the preacher by the shoulders and, whirling him around, sent him flying out of the door.

“Run for your life!” he shouted.

Blicky and Jesse Smith were trying to hold the lunging Kells.

“Jim, you block the door,” called Jesse. “Bate, you grab any loose guns an' knives.... Now, boss, rant an' be damned!”

They released Kells and backed away, leaving him the room. Joan's limbs seemed unable to execute her will.

“Joan! It's true,” he exclaimed, with whistling breath.

“Yes.”

“WHO?” he bellowed.

“I'll never tell.”

He reached for her with hands like claws, as if he meant to tear her, rend her. Joan was helpless, weak, terrified. Those shaking, clutching hands reached for her throat and yet never closed round it. Kells wanted to kill her, but he could not. He loomed over her, dark, speechless, locked in his paroxysm of rage. Perhaps then came a realization of ruin through her. He hated her because he loved her. He wanted to kill her because of that hate, yet he could not harm her, even hurt her. And his soul seemed in conflict with two giants—the evil in him that was hate, and the love that was good. Suddenly he flung her aside. She stumbled over Pearce's body, almost falling, and staggered back to the wall. Kells had the center of the room to himself. Like a mad steer in a corral he gazed about, stupidly seeking some way to escape. But the escape Kells longed for was from himself. Then either he let himself go or was unable longer to control his rage. He began to plunge around. His actions were violent, random, half insane. He seemed to want to destroy himself and everything. But the weapons were guarded by his men and the room contained little he could smash. There was something magnificent in his fury, yet childish and absurd. Even under its influence and his abandonment he showed a consciousness of its futility. In a few moments the inside of the cabin was in disorder and Kells seemed a disheveled, sweating, panting wretch. The rapidity and violence of his action, coupled with his fury, soon exhausted him. He fell from plunging here and there to pacing the floor. And even the dignity of passion passed from him. He looked a hopeless, beaten, stricken man, conscious of defeat.

Jesse Smith approached the bandit leader. “Jack, here's your gun,” he said. “I only took it because you was out of your head.... An' listen, boss. There's a few of us left.”

That was Smith's expression of fidelity, and Kells received it with a pallid, grateful smile.

“Bate, you an' Jim clean up this mess,” went on Smith. “An', Blicky, come here an' help me with Pearce. We'll have to plant him.”

The stir begun by the men was broken by a sharp exclamation from Cleve.

“Kells, here comes Gulden—Beady Jones, Williams, Beard!”

The bandit raised his head and paced back to where he could look out.

Bate Wood made a violent and significant gesture. “Somethin' wrong,” he said, hurriedly. “An' it's more'n to do with Gul!... Look down the road. See thet gang. All excited an' wavin' hands an' runnin'. But they're goin' down into camp.”

Jesse Smith turned a gray face toward Kells. “Boss, there's hell to pay! I've seen THET kind of excitement before.”

Kells thrust the men aside and looked out. He seemed to draw upon a reserve strength, for he grew composed even while he gazed. “Jim, get in the other room,” he ordered, sharply. “Joan—you go, too. Keep still.”

Joan hurried to comply. Jim entered after her and closed the door. Instinctively they clasped hands, drew close together.

“Jim, what does it mean?” she whispered, fearfully. “Gulden!”

“He must be looking for me,” replied Jim. “But there's more doing. Did you see that crowd down the road?”

“No. I couldn't see out.”

“Listen.”

Heavy tramp boots sounded without. Silently Joan led Jim to the crack between the boards through which she had spied upon the bandits. Jim peeped through, and Joan saw his hand go to his gun. Then she looked.

Gulden was being crowded into the cabin by fierce, bulging-jawed men who meant some kind of dark business. The strangest thing about that entrance was its silence. In a moment they were inside, confronting Kells with his little group. Beard, Jones, Williams, former faithful allies of Kells, showed a malignant opposition. And the huge Gulden resembled an enraged gorilla. For an instant his great, pale, cavernous eyes glared. He had one hand under his coat and his position had a sinister suggestion. But Kells stood cool and sure. When Gulden moved Kells's gun was leaping forth. But he withheld his fire, for Gulden had only a heavy round object wrapped in a handkerchief.

“Look there!” he boomed, and he threw the object on the table.

The dull, heavy, sodden thump had a familiar ring. Joan heard Jim gasp and his hand tightened spasmodically upon hers.

Slowly the ends of the red scarf slid down to reveal an irregularly round, glinting lump. When Joan recognized it her heart seemed to burst.

“Jim Cleve's nugget!” ejaculated Kells. “Where'd you get that?”

Gulden leaned across the table, his massive jaw working. “I found it on the miner Creede,” replied the giant, stridently.

Then came a nervous shuffling of boots on the creaky boards. In the silence a low, dull murmur of distant voices could be heard, strangely menacing. Kells stood transfixed, white as a sheet.

“On Creede!”

“Yes.”

“Where was his—his body?”

“I left it out on the Bannack trail.”

The bandit leader appeared mute.

“Kells, I followed Creede out of camp last night,” fiercely declared Gulden.... “I killed him!... I found this nugget on him!”