Cabin Gulch Read Free

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. 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 away 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 tookthe precaution then to hide behind some bushes, and watched from there. When the horseman approached closer, she discovered 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 sound of her voice Roberts started suddenly and reached for his gun. Then he recognized her.
    â€œHello, Joan!” he exclaimed, turning her way. “Reckon you gave me a scare. You ain’t alone ’way out here?”
    â€œYes. I was trailing Jim when I saw you,” she replied. “Thought you were Jim.”
    â€œTrailin’ Jim? What’s up?”
    â€œWe 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.”
    â€œAhuh. 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.
    â€œYou don’t believe . . . Jim’ll really go?” she asked hurriedly.
    â€œReckon I do, Joan,” he replied, after a pause. “Jim is jest fool enough. He has been gettin’ recklesser 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 Bailey. But I reckon you know.”
    â€œI’ve heard nothing,” she replied. “Tell me. Why did they fight?”
    â€œReport was that Bailey talked uncomplimentary about you.”
    Joan experienced a sweet warm rush of blood—anothernew and strange sensation. She did not like Bailey. He had been persistent and offensive.
    â€œWhy didn’t Jim tell me?” she queried, half to herself.
    â€œReckon he wasn’t proud of the shape he left Bailey 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 ridge toward the great gray and black walls. Something stirred deeply 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.
    â€œI’m going after him,” she said.
    Roberts did not show any surprise. He looked at the position of the sun.
    â€œReckon 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