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man,” passionately rejoined Roberts. “Why, you’re somethin’ inhuman. I knew that out in the gold fields. But to think you can stand there . . . an’ talk sweet an’ pleasant . . . with no idee of manhood. Let her come now . . . or I’m a-goin’ for my gun!”
    â€œRoberts, haven’t you a wife . . . children?”
    â€œYes, I have!” shouted Roberts huskily. “An’ that wife would disown me if I left Joan Randle to you. An’ I’ve got a grown girl. Mebbe someday she might need a man to stand between her an’ such as you, Jack Kells!”
    All Roberts’s pathos and passion had no effect, unless to bring out by contrast the singular and ruthless nature of Jack Kells.
    â€œWill you hit the trail?”
    â€œBy Gawd!” thundered Roberts.
    Until then Joan Randle had been fascinated, held by the swift interchange between her friend and enemy. But now she had a convulsion of fear. She had seen men fight, but never to the death. Roberts crouched like a wolf at bay. There was a madman upon him. He shook like a rippling leaf. Suddenly his shoulder lurched—his arm swung.
    Joan wheeled away in horror, shutting her eyes, covering her ears, running blindly. Then her muffled hearing burst to the boom of a gun.

T HREE
    Joan ran on, stumbling over rocks and brush, with a darkness before her eyes and terror in her soul. She was out in the cedars when someone grasped her from behind. She felt the hands as the coils of a snake. Then she was ready to faint, but she must not faint. She struggled away—stood free. It was the man Bill who had caught her. He said something that was unintelligible. She reached for the snag of a dead cedar and, leaning there, fought her weakness, that cold black horror that seemed a physical thing in her mind, her blood, her muscles.
    When she recovered enough for the thickness to leave her sight, she saw Kells coming, leading her horse and his own. At sight of him a strange swift heat shot through her. Then she was confounded with the thought of Roberts.
    â€œRo-Roberts?” she faltered.
    Kells gave her a piercing glance.
    â€œMiss Randle, I had to take the fight out of your friend,” he said.
    â€œYou . . . you . . . is he dead?”
    â€œI just crippled his gun arm. If I hadn’t, he would have hurt somebody. He’ll ride back to Hoadley and tell your folks about it. So they’ll know you’re safe.”
    â€œSafe,” she whispered.
    â€œThat’s what I said, Miss Randle. If you’re going to ride out into that border . . . if it’s possible to be safe out there, you’ll be so with me.”
    â€œBut I want to go home. Oh, please let me go!”
    â€œI couldn’t think of it.”
    â€œThen . . . what will you . . . do with me?”
    Again that gray glance pierced her. His eyes were clear, flawless, like crystal, without coldness, warmth, expression.
    â€œI’ll get a barrel of gold out of you.”
    â€œHow?” she asked wonderingly.
    â€œI’ll hold you for ransom. Sooner or later those prospectors over there are going to strike gold. Strike it rich! I know that. I’ve got to make a living some way.”
    Kells was tightening the cinch on her saddle while he spoke. His voice, his manner, the amiable smile on his intelligent face,—they all appeared to come from sincerity. But for those strange eyes Joan would have wholly believed him; as it was, a half doubt troubled her. She remembered the character Roberts had given this man. Still she was recovering her nerve. It had been the certainty of disaster to Roberts that had made her weaken. As he was only slightly wounded and free to ride home safely, she had not the horror of his death upon her. Indeed, she was now so immensely uplifted that she faced the situation unflinchingly.
    â€œBill,” said Kells to the man standing there with a grin on his coarse red face, “you go back