The Border Legion by Zane Grey (books suggested by bill gates txt) 📗

“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